I found the place where hatred died, but so did love, and I find myself wandering down the aisles of corpses of dreams and fantasies, wondering where reality is eventually laid to rest. I found it, in the eyes of those who watch, and in the voices of those who spoke. This place isn’t meant for those who hear.

Because I searched, until I found what I was looking for. Absolution didn’t come, and I was relaxed knowing that what I was expecting, was not supposed to be expected. But I trusted, in true design, that what I once mistook for faith, turned out to be nothing more than a fictional pantomime.

So I lead you to hear of the place where it all ends, so you will see that I’m not looking for peace. I do not fear the loss of hatred just because it means that this heart beat has died,  its’ sound is soothing amongst the breath of beasts, but like fantasy, the truth must die too.

And blessed be those who love without first being taught its’ meaning. Because I found what I was looking for in the place where we all made the mistake. Symbols and metaphors layer on like cake left too long to bake in an oven that was never turned on. I’m exactly where I am meant to be, whispering to those who cannot see, and cannot speak, about the inflation of the cost of dying while still living. With too many contracts to sign, what better understanding can we make in the sands, of answers to questions that have questions as answers.

See, I found the place where hatred died, and I walked the aisles as my hands skimmed over smooth coffins without the desire to know what lay inside, and I, having no want nor care, simply maintain a hope that oblivion has blank paper…and a pen.


This is in response to the posted response for my poem Beautiful.

One thought on “Finding

  1. This place where hatred dies, which I spoke of before, is not to be found while we still wear skin. I have heard people speak of this current place as the place where even hatred dies. But a simple look around shows that this is not so. And the death of love is also a myth born by those who walk in this place of testing. Among so many myths whispered by skin wearers, this one reigns supreme.

    Wonderful and Horrible were brothers. One was and the other only pretended to be. Yet, Wonderful kept to Himself and only shared His thoughts with His closest friends. Horrible, on the other hand, shared his thoughts and belongings with everyone he ever met. I say this from the perspective of one who stands on the mountain top and looks back over the spreading village below, where horrible lives. I am nearly to Wonderful’s city. And I can hear the music of His people as they sing of He who Is.

    He who never was, will never be. It’s a promise of truth from Wonderful’s lips. And in the city where I am bound, Horrible is never to set foot. The beauty is that those who live in the village can climb to this place if they are willing to simply ask Wonderful for help. Horrible is the stingy one. But Wonderful is generous and kind. Horrible takes and takes until nothing is left to consume. Wonderful gives and gives until His friends are full and complete.

    Come with me and we will dance to the melody of those who know Wonderful face to face. One step. It takes one step across the threshold of your door. A simple “ask” is all it takes. Colors await, never again a colorless day again. Even the darkest moment in the company of Wonderful is filled with awe inspiring vibrance.

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