The Fountain of Sarcasmic Wit…

.

Author’s Note: A collection of short pieces that have no place elsewhere as yet.

.

I.

Into this dark embrace, we meet the light we’ve sought,

And from beyond the veil the world is clear.

To all we’ve held and loved, our blood has bought,

Eternity for us, within their hearts, they hold most dear.

.

II.

And though I lie here awake in the twilight of dusk, my mind is dreaming of dawn.

Whispers of love in the shadows of time, soon to die, long since born.

Clouds of memory and splinters of mind, return to me, my love, once more be mine.

.

III.

We are but fireflies against the crimson backdrop of this circle of firelight we call the world. Most cast pitiful shadows in the dust yet, but a few shine forth their own, inner light, which beats back that of the flames, giving birth to inky shadows that swallow others in their wake. I do not presume to know whether I cast a shadow, or am swallowed by the darkness – all I hope for, is that my candle lasts me the journey from my beginning to the end.

.

IV.

The summer sun beat down upon yellow fields and sapphire waves, on burnt skin and aged stone. Nothing could escape its fierce gaze, not even the shadows that hid behind the lazy figures that wandered about, or even beneath the shade of tall trees. The air itself, in complete exhaustion, had simply ceased to move – nothing it tried could keep it cool and safe from the searing heat. Birds hid themselves beneath their outstretched wings; frogs and toads crawled under rocks and slithered beneath gnarled roots. Insects buzzed freely about, from flower to flower, soaking up the sweet, sweet nectar that gave them strength and the urge to continue in this pressure cooker. Those lucky few humans who had been blessed with intelligence, and were fortunate to be within, rather than without, looked out in wonder at a scene so bright and bold their eyes stung and watered in mere seconds. Pure golden light flowed across the landscape like a flood, painting a picture mostly of yellow ochre and royal blues. It was as if some artist had taken his cloth, dipped it in paint and spread it across the canvas, creating this wash of colour. Mere words and images, still, cannot describe the full intensity and vibrancy of the Sun’s children – its light and heat.