Needled Meditations

By

Gavion E. Chandler

With mindful meditations, striking this tedious canvas by this narrowing lance that bears that pitted eye and those fleeting banners of fallen spectrums that stray forth from that ghostly lyre… it and its tale that ever ebb within this deathly silence I come to summon these visions dreamt within some placidic nightmare. It would be, and it is by the act of this pitted lance, it piercing those silences known but to the mortal soul by which these visions come to quicken.  It and by its act it comes to strike as would the huntress, bearing her scarabed dagger midst a night hollow twilight’s stilled wisdoms come to offer her embrace; that which she shall inevitably come to deny those fallen angels, who sows the coming of morrows I come to tend these visions in deed of heart.

To this tapestry where I and I alone come to forge by meditations, while reasoning justifications in contemplations;- the act in deed, and those matters that compel issues (those issues to that final deliberation that comes to rise to such occasions I come to tend, though it would be true, that I would long to unveil its composition, those meditations that shadow that coveted silence; silence that’d be no mystery to I…

Long would I to unveil such mysteries, yet would I hesitate, yet never may I…

Cradled within this rocking chair, ebbing its worn wooden arcs ‘cross. ‘gainst these floorboards that’d be bare of carpet, I tend well my watch.  Their mild song that’d be ancient as time itself, moans within the shifting of these temper’d bows, echoing moments of distant days when I was but a newborn and knew the warmth of my mother’s breasts, and that which would foreshadow those days now would be lost to me. Their song no longer sweet to me, now would this cradle, where I strike those wooden bows to and fro shadowed by morrows fallen to some unknown dawn where moments cast unto a fallen morn, comes to rise, though spectres’ hollow tales, I come to cast my gaze ‘cross this hollow chamber.  For in this chamber, would I, shall I, must I tend to those duties at hand.

This chamber, in which I have come to know sanctuary to be, now would I know it to be but a prison, to I and this fellow (whom I in my duties come to tend), we who come to dwell within, to be of this dismal shrine, shrouded with permeating and ever pending despondency.