“Being a Theatrical nerd, a writer, and an avid lord of the rings lover, definitely warrants an outrageous amount of coffee right???”
by Anthony Delaney
There she goes, walking down the street.
Feeling no connection, fearing no interference.
Moving with shameless wonder, understanding no other.
Seeing naught through the cold night but a frozen life.
Touching the warmth that sparked a dream.
Feeling no interaction, fearing no conversation.
I was sold on every word of the dream you told me.
The cyan dream and its impossibility.
Remembering the smell and the feel of belonging.
With the bliss of ignorance and its odd understanding.
Forgetting the way she talked to you, and the way she laughed with you.
And waking every morning, sweaty palms with dry mouth and an inching fear. A fear of never knowing that spectacular sociability again, or being within her gaze. Feeling no humanity, fearing no pain but this kind alone.
Remembering the times of hopelessness pushed away by the cyan dream as a wind blowing over the pine trees that echo with the story of life. Of a life that will remain, frozen. As a frozen feeling of the way our eyes no longer meet, or the melancholy memories of days past. Feeling no warmth, fearing no escape from the disappointment of failed attempts at a reconcile. I remember the days of the rising sun and the open air, days of truly living not just existing and feeling it like no other. The tide washes in freezing as it crashes into me creating a monumental artifact of beauty and despair that was like nothing from before. I see the wall of ice before me, as impenetrable as ever, using whatever I could to break each layer only to have it replaced as I slump against the pine trees behind me, out of energy, out of breath, out of warmth. The wind howls overhead and my memory draws a blank at the sound of your voice. Feeling no love, fearing no sight of you, one last time. Feeling no gaze, fearing no fulfilment of the life that should have been. With that cyan dream, and its impossibility. The wall stands overhead mocking me as The snow around ensures for me a natural tomb and I see one last vision from afar, of you, ignoring all that was said, all that we did, and the fact that I’ve been digging this ice the whole time, and you couldn’t care less.
Gods and Devils
by Anthony Delaney
This is how you read, this is how you see, this is how you guess ahead, this is how you reason, this is how you guess ahead correctly, this is how you learn, this is how you remember what you’ve learned. This is how you use what you have learned, this is how you care about learning, this is how you acknowledge the dark in yourself, this is how you find the light with me, this is how you pretend to hope, this is how you become good at pretending. This is how you create, this is how you destroy, this is how you become a god even when it seems to be beyond you. This is how you rule the universe, this is how you make it your own like the conqueror we know you are, this is how to reshape it, this is how you sculpt mountains, this is how you mold valleys, this is how you build kingdoms, this is how you decimate empires, this is how you breathe life into characters, this is how you forge stars, this is how you craft animals, and this is how you lose it all. This is how you buy paper, this is how you hold a pencil, this is how you find the light with me, this is how you write.
by Anthony Delaney
When I was asleep I saw flickers, a show, some would bleed and some would shine, you can only imagine how few choices you would have left with the aching of the scent drifting up to your nostrils, a mirror reflecting all that would be accomplished with a simple flip and throw, a simple action, just one, would send a thousand more flickers screaming through the sky, or would lift you, and lift like the rising tide that edges closer with every waking glance back, back towards the flickers that so beautifully enamored me for far too long, time runs short as does the light racing away from the sound of a thousand drums beating inside me, but what fuels it? What fuels that great symphony? What exists in the deepest trench and the darkest craters? What beast knows such a melody that has the perfect rhythm to keep pushing forward, that mimics a heartbeat? In the shadowed land of rotting husks that were once called, hope, dwells that which never dies, never goes out. Looking deeper into the reflection, falling through the mirror into a wave of crushing reality what keeps me standing? What keeps me grounded to what I know and feel? How does it fuel my arms, my legs, my body, my soul to get up and live? Keeping me aware of what you know, and feel, and hear, and taste, in tune with the sensation, in tune with the moment, with the pulsing rush of everlasting energy letting all worries drop like a rock sinking to the bottom of the trench and craters where only one other entity dwells, the shine shoots up through the roof of the moment, flickers dance throughout the hall of fate and gushing forth is the heat, the warmth, the desire, the passion, the need, the heartbeat, the fuel, the oneness, the action. Illuminating my darkest corners and banishing the longest shadows, within that victory is the beat, the beating of the drummer, the smooth foundation that keeps me grounded, firmly, without hesitation, burning off the ends of my drawn out fears straight to their roots like a drowning of flame, it is, without a doubt, the fire within.
The Jesters Game
by Anthony Delaney
Did you know that there are 540,000 different ways to end a game of chess? And in between that there are 7,000 different mid game strategies you can use. There are tournaments held all around the world for championships of all sorts, but it’s just a game. A game that can change the lives of millions, during the days of feudalism it was very popular for generals, commanders, and rulers to play chess in their spare time, sometimes with their allies. And sometimes with their enemies. Sometimes they would even make huge national choices based upon who won a game of chess. And sometimes a ruler or officer might get angry after losing a game of chess, and when all’s said and all is done there is only one way for these men of power to channel their wrath. Into the people, wrecking them and slaying them as if they were mere pawns. And on the outside they are. But inside they are your leaping knights, your foresighted bishops, you’re tall standing rooks, and one of them may be your powerful queen. Yet instead of picking up the pieces to play another round you tear each other apart. Instead of learning you end up burning the board screaming “if I can’t win then no one gets to play!”. But the world is full of players, and they keep coming back for more, no matter how many times you lash out, no matter how many times you hear the echo of “checkmate” it won’t stop. And the only way to win is to become that which you despise.