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I Am Santo

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Fire in the Void

Summer sunset in Southern New Hampshire
iPhone 5 shot

This distant heart – radiant and reliable, a circle within endless cycles – demands response. Beheld in awe, mouths pull wide at the weight of it beauty, tears sting as hearts ache to understand its furious draw. To drift is to fight nature’s will, spitting in the face of laws that will desert souls in aimless hunger. Vacant, but with an eternal echo of known beauty as if the dusk trapped by closed eyelids, need grows intolerable. Stretch the length of all desire and it will circle that sun as world’s do; endlessly and without variation. A practiced path, but renewed in every moment these lovers’ eyes meet, igniting hearts bright enough to bless infertile lands with life.

Can shoots of green startle the cracked gray of solitude? The business of life infecting cold with the burning of nature’s insistence that this is the true way, that desolation’s blight and isolated will’s loneliness be vanquished.

Great suns nourish. They dispel longing for verdant passion and seeds split to shed life as virulent protest to a universe molded in darkness. Unalone in this celestial buoyancy, worlds gleam great blues and greens as testament to the desperate wonder of a fiery heart and the elemental – fire, water, earth, air – catalyzing passionate destruction from which the art of these days emerge, hearts entwined with thread made of stardust. For this is the sum of all beauty and rage, a dismissal of the overwhelming black with a spectrum of volatile emotion from which springs these countless era of yearning.

Love is a new stone unpenetrated by light, but ever hopeful that warmth will expand its center, shatter its hard surface and spill from its striations the contagious joy of contact. This informed state is an evangelism of ardor, the spreading of a simple gospel into an uncaring span of lifeless silence that believes in cold because it is all that’s known.

Within those dark corners of limitless hollow there rests waves of sinewy mass, collections of dust that await the strike of Hell’s fury as gunpowder in slumber; the threatened conflagration driving fear into complacency.

It’s not good enough to exist. It’s an insult to beauty. Better to burn and druve the rest to follow in decadent flame.

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