I looked for you in the facade of hope
in the lines of poetry
in the hours of sleep
yet I should not be as foolish to think
that I would find you - as there is no meaning to be found anywhere.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Hillary Benner
This afternoon was perfect for a walk in this town. April is a beautiful month and today served as the paradigm for such beauty.
Dressed in black sweatpants, my white tank top, hair long and blonde as usual I left my apartment with my Book of Disquietude and my journal, intent on finding somewhere comfortable in the Nisky Hill cemetery to read and write down a few of my thoughts. Being that cemeteries are peaceful to me, I looked forward to some alone time which to reflect some current but lingering thoughts.
The cool wind served as a nice dichotomy between the warm sun and I decided upon a grassy knoll area underneath one of the largest trees in the cemetery, on which to sit. Opening up to a new page to pour words onto, I wasn't there for more than five minutes until a lady approached me, saying she just needed to look at me up close. She said I looked so much like her daughter. She asked me where I went to school and if I lived around here. Then she told me how her daughter died two years ago today and she had just been visiting the grave. She said when she saw me walking, the way my hair looked and the clothing I was wearing, I looked exactly like her daughter...
How strange upon this day I would be walking in that exact location at that time she was there, choosing that spot to read, those clothes to wear. My heart went out to this lady and it wasn't until I stopped by her daughter's grave on my way out of the cemetery that I took a minute to give my respects. The grave was decorated with many fresh beautiful flowers of all colors, along with a container which held several notes to Hillary. Upon arriving home, I found information about her via the internet and myspace.
She died two years ago on Easter Sunday in a car crash with her boyfriend.
Though I did not know her until today, it is strange to meet someone after they have passed.
Rest in Peace, Hillary.
Dressed in black sweatpants, my white tank top, hair long and blonde as usual I left my apartment with my Book of Disquietude and my journal, intent on finding somewhere comfortable in the Nisky Hill cemetery to read and write down a few of my thoughts. Being that cemeteries are peaceful to me, I looked forward to some alone time which to reflect some current but lingering thoughts.
The cool wind served as a nice dichotomy between the warm sun and I decided upon a grassy knoll area underneath one of the largest trees in the cemetery, on which to sit. Opening up to a new page to pour words onto, I wasn't there for more than five minutes until a lady approached me, saying she just needed to look at me up close. She said I looked so much like her daughter. She asked me where I went to school and if I lived around here. Then she told me how her daughter died two years ago today and she had just been visiting the grave. She said when she saw me walking, the way my hair looked and the clothing I was wearing, I looked exactly like her daughter...
How strange upon this day I would be walking in that exact location at that time she was there, choosing that spot to read, those clothes to wear. My heart went out to this lady and it wasn't until I stopped by her daughter's grave on my way out of the cemetery that I took a minute to give my respects. The grave was decorated with many fresh beautiful flowers of all colors, along with a container which held several notes to Hillary. Upon arriving home, I found information about her via the internet and myspace.
She died two years ago on Easter Sunday in a car crash with her boyfriend.
Though I did not know her until today, it is strange to meet someone after they have passed.
Rest in Peace, Hillary.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
The Greatest Rogue
The greatest rogue of all our rogues
intelligent, honest and incorrigible
yet never ceasing to be a rogue.
An appetite for contradictory sensations
isn't hard to acquire once one begins
the preservation of the good and beautiful.
The greatest rogue of all our rogues
the muse of my affection and
sculptor of my wisdom.
You simultaneously bewilder and intimidate
the masses threatened by such romance
yet obsess the minds of the inspired.
Behind the coarseness of your visage:
There is no greater privilege to have been
an apprentice to the kindness witnessed.
My greatest rogue.
My greatest muse.
My greatest tragedy.
intelligent, honest and incorrigible
yet never ceasing to be a rogue.
An appetite for contradictory sensations
isn't hard to acquire once one begins
the preservation of the good and beautiful.
The greatest rogue of all our rogues
the muse of my affection and
sculptor of my wisdom.
You simultaneously bewilder and intimidate
the masses threatened by such romance
yet obsess the minds of the inspired.
Behind the coarseness of your visage:
There is no greater privilege to have been
an apprentice to the kindness witnessed.
My greatest rogue.
My greatest muse.
My greatest tragedy.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Temptation
I remain a fool for temptation.
Artificial moments
Dripping with tension
Once a week or less
Is too much for too little of you.
I can never tell
whether your hesitance
is bitterness or the leftovers
of the lost love we'll never have.
Artificial moments
Dripping with tension
Once a week or less
Is too much for too little of you.
I can never tell
whether your hesitance
is bitterness or the leftovers
of the lost love we'll never have.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
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