Lion Heart in Midnight Flame

Tired in a dark forest of life, he found me, and found something of hope. I had little left, but for him I would. I was going, but I stayed long past life's rent was due. We danced round night fires and such was something of heaven. He bid me, "Come! Play in the sun!" and I can't. I stay cloaked by wood's edge while he goes and waves to me. And I have something of joy to see him do the things I cannot. And I watch him, the sun in me, play in the two o'clock sky as if it were easy.
   Sometimes, though I try to stay grateful, I come to self pity. I fall to envy those who can enjoy the sun. I hear them speak of the beauty of day break, and play of summer, but I can't. My skin does not like the sun. The dark side of the Lion Heart is the Destroyer. The giver of life in Spring is the taker in August, and the Wheel spins peaceful complete. What was once play is poison, though my bones at times long for it's warmth. I've had to see the beauty of night, because of because of this. I look at photos streaming rays, and I remember fondly, but now the Moon is my Sun. closed blinds, because the older I grow, the more sensitive my eyes to light, but I remember greens and light so bright it washed even reds from sight.
   I have candle beside me, a small bit of sun. We're one. I take to my brushes to create light, and maybe the sun was in me all a long. Maybe I burn enough within, and that's why the night is no longer dark, but full of color and often warm. I am not like all, but I am like many who, brush in hand see through our fingers and feel the sun in people, stars in eyes, light from a breath.
   We ecstatically wretched, the vampiric servants, the portraitists, steal or borrow only bits of souls, touches of light, when too much is too hot, and issue eternity through the life's blood of tearful brushstrokes. Free-falling, we descend into wells of such sweet agony, that we would do it again and again, It's all we have, or all I do, and in our own little by death, by little, each time more gone than the time before, we see you breathe, and for a moment together we breathe, and though I may go one day, taking a name with me that is not who I was, simply drawn on your shoulders, I joy in knowing you will live forever in light.
Do not remember me. Leave me the rose amber glow of shadows. Remember you were loved, and give it away as though your life depended on it.
 It does.
  As for Death, Enough foreplay. Either come and get me, or the get out of my way. ...
Waiting a moment,
My candle still burns. I thought as much.
Dearest Companion, I'll run to you when I'm ready. Step aside, or make yourself useful.
Brushes need washing, there are yet more dances in the night, and I have painting to do.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClQcUyhoxTg

tina jones

Night Meditation

Lucid, I rise from yawning sheets and make my way through halls. White lace sways and drapes drift on lunar sighs. My hands brush a wood screen door that was never locked, and I emerge to a quiet place. Flat stones, still warm from a long gone evening sun - like petals against my feet, and I walk with silent purpose to a garden I've never seen. Moonlit colors are blue and grey. Scarce violet whispers of yesterdays and gates open to a little place where I am always home. The path leads me to a humble bench of stone. I take my rest there alone and not alone. Midnight fragrance fills the air of flowers and me. Lights speak in muted twinkles and tell me it's ok to sleep. The bench is sure, and I am safe. I lie down and look up through trees. Branches that dust the stars protect me. Sleepy wings come to enfold and blue light bathes me to dreams.

tina jones

"Rain on Stone"
Photograph