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Trembling limbs shiver, to pain, as trickling thorny red begins the sin
Careful timestop steps, consumes, as he enters the man named ‚Great Hall‘
Ecce homo. Behold the man ‚ A glowing silent human, somehow, 10 foot tall.
Battered body cant hide the reverence. Powerful silent steps sets the stage
Of human all against hidden presence. No begging bows, no human rage.
Who are you? What are you? Say something, do you want to defend yourself? Do you want to die?
Don‘t you know I have the power to have you released or say to the priests, this man I will crucify.
A mind empties its questions and shows it‘s own fickle,
empty,
human cry.
Scarlet robe flits the hardened ground, flickering light struggle to fill the now holy room.
A voice with the force of a thousand chariots, summons the earth, stars, sun and moon.
And he answered with truth and love:
„You would have no power over me if it had not been given to you from above“
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It is not the dawning of ecstasy we thrive to inhale, it is not the chivalry of being we wish to indulge, it is the paradox of everything we seek.
Sadness is our horse, affliction our companion and loneliness our welcomed friend. We seek that which we openly repulse. We seek the same that we may dwell upon the void and perhaps drop naked upon the cloud of nothingness, in the hope we catch a reflection of the real, a murmur of the true and a glimpse of our beginning. Our will to fulfill, our prayer to die and our being to be loved.
This is my prayer.
This is my will.
This is my surrender.
A little compilation of “ars imaginis” …please click on the image
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There is that hidden thing, can you feel it ? Yet feel is not the right word, no, can you see it?. No, that’s not the right word either. There is a thing, a known thing, yet known without a formed and proven emotion. It sits not in your gut, it cannot be grasped, it cannot be curtailed, it cannot be saved. What is this hidden most elusive thing?
It is a hope, a dream an imagination and it could not be formed unless you chose it so ! Search forever, you search in vain.
Perfect is that thing that life promises, that ideas derive from and that imagination sets. Although humans touch it through idea and imagining they cannot recreate it. A pefect circle when re created is always flawed, the idea is not.
Just Poems 
