You have entered the realm of a writer.

Welcome to A Writer's Landscape!

You have entered the realm of my mind where words play with the fabric of our existence. This is the map of my imagination: the very foundations of inspiration, musing, and thought splayed for your wandering eyes. Dive deep into the tides of these forces and experience my reality, my fantasy, my world; and if you should be so inclined, share your words with this land.

Peace and Love!

J Hart F

Thursday, December 30, 2010

How Sure of the Verse

The soft existence of silent nights sweeps calmly down the effervescent cloudless sky, reaching idly for a waiting soul. It cares not for the temperament of drifting snow or bitter winds; however chilled the heart may feel without the warmth of sunlight's guiding love, this livelihood charges ahead with a sweet remorse dampened with inner fire. To act on the imperceptible symbols prevailing throughout the Verse, visible peripherally, striking like butterfly wings, shouting like loving whispers over the shoulder, is to realize deja vu's premonitions as truth and fate.

Then only time remains as the moving factor of destiny's admittance to the foreground of reality. No happenstance of imagination changes the undulating form love takes in a lifespan. If ever the waves cease, the floor becomes an unbearable hardening foothold to the wanton play within the relationship of darkened moods, hidden feelings, and mistrusted insecurities. Such amounts of harsh winds shake the crust bearing the weight of undeserved, loveless, distant touches through eyes pierced with truisms.

Love is what the heart knows.

Love is selflessness.

Love is undeniable.

What of it then? What of love is challenged when the night's sky gleams without stars, hidden away from the moon's eye, broken apart from the sun's brilliant glow? The black fidelity permeating sight beyond misunderstanding is a slate untouched by Light. A starting point, no longer considered death, destruction, doom, despair... A stepping stone imprinted with unaccustomed awareness to the finality of changing emotions. Black is not the bearer of moods known only to the mourning. Let the darkened arena grow again with lush attitude and brilliant vivacity; wherever truth reigns in golden halls and delicate ornament.

Change is but the better part of seasons where chapters are written as a cyclical permanence. The next question is of the topic within the next chapter. Does it continue as before? Or does it rise again with creative endeavors only the Verse knows?

Will my hand turn that page and read ever on and on?

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