Such is philosophy—Questioning ordained thought; dissecting pre-ordained theory.
A blind mind is a stagnant soul.
Christ, Mohammed, and Buddha … brothers all, sons of God. Destined to die for the sins of those they forgave.
Sittin’ on the porch, sippin’ coffee, and smokin’ a cigar, I watched a burning yellowish-orange orb slowly rise above the horizon … ’twas our faithful, old morning star breakin’ dawn. ’Tis a magnificient sight!
Life is a route to personal discovery and social recourse. We learn from a path taken, correcting our line of venture, in hope we improve ourselves along the way.
Come explore the Universe with me … surfing a cosmic crest into a supernova flash, burning matter as we glide the extreme beam of infinite wonders.
The written word’s power to inspire is inept unless it provokes the reader to think.
The now-me generation is content on selling out the human race for that bigger piece of pie in the blueray sky.
I’m a cosmic soul man! Playing the immortal chords of truth found only in the music of deities.
I feel as if I’m existing in a parallel Universe. The life I’ve lived was not expected, but it was an intoxicating, amazing experience filled with some wild shit you simply would not believe. Hell, I have a hard time grasping it, myself!
I’m a blues man! My guitar speaks striking songs sung of my past journey, echoing future passion and purpose in store.
“You’re Mark the warrior … Mars, god of war. You’re Matthew the orator … he who speaks his mind’s just roar,” as once told to me by Madame Iris … my seductress of the night, femme fatale of French Quarter lore. Such a difficult, torn duality it has been.
On common battlefields of mortal deed, fellow kind fight, leaving remnant dead. A crimson stream flows from our brothers’ veins that death doth bleed.
Human fallacies pulsate like a charged cosmic quasar beam, banded together to catch twilight’s last dream. The night is passing beyond.
The good earth? A habitat filled with barren wastelands; stagnant tainted water; toxic foul air; but no one in power seems to care about the newborns of tomorrow. While the thorns of life persist, the rose withers and decays.
Mortal is he who wants life to be forever free. That man stands trembling before death, for he finally sees.
Such a whimsical folly mortality is to me, for it is not the end, but the beginning.
I do not fear the inevitable fate, for death and I are old friends … having met many times before on the killing fields of the sinning founding fathers.
Don’t preach to me, I know! The first time I encountered Death, I saw the light, but lived. The second time I met Death, we just sat together and talked for a spell. “Mark, it’s not your time yet,” my dark angel told me. I asked Death, “Why not, Man! It hurts like hell!” He replied, “That’s the point … you feel the pain, you’re feeling life.”
’Tis as if my spirit has been ravaged by darkness’ raven. Woe am I … of the way things turned out to be.