I Am Santo

Fiction, poetry, music and mindscape pictures by creative artist Jason Santo

There is nothing unreasonable in love
And isn’t that what this is about?
That bubble of warmth
Like the swallow of spirits
Disarming the overcranked mind,
Lulling it like a babe at dusk
And opening the thick skin
Of jaded indifference
And such callous belief
That the heart,
Encrusted in the rigid carapace
Of longing
And resignation
Should crack its malignant shell
Despite whatever seeks to thicken
Such hardening hardship;
Those cursed miles,
The winding roads
And rage sworn hills
Between there and here,
Today and tomorrow,
Always and never.
Sweep such constructs away
Like butterflies on late summer wind
Caught in the fading gold of day
Fragile and beautiful
Demanding of sweet delicacy,
Kisses that taste of understanding;
Sweet but rich
Hinting at lusts strong enough
To crush bones and wisdom.
Let it.
Let the maddening sweep of bliss
Blind and crack
Like the rumbling caution
Of fear’s thunder
So late after the flash
Of hot white yearning.
Get struck
And live richer,
Stunned by the freedom
Of the shattered casket
The still contents of which
Once eulogized
Beats again.
There’s nothing stealing
The rhythm
Of this thrumming pulse
But the pickpocket deceptions
Of belief in limits.
Find faith
And watch wealth grow
Oh so reasonably
That it could even be
Taken for granted.

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Birth or death? The soul is set free regardless, shimmering in the refracted gold edges of a beginning, an end. The most beautiful fear felt walking the dread line, balancing hope on each step when a plummet into life – or out if it – hinges on single moves, perfect decisions. Crisis circus, a cascade of tears and cavalcade of desires, cirrus dreams and circuitous hopes, careless curiosity and cancerous whims. Dying is art of rebirth into new, unknown days. Letting go is for the artist, the lover, the fool and cripple. The brave hold still, the commended fasten hands to wings and soar to lands where tendrils of mist coalesce underfoot as solid ground, and accept the weight underfoot. Faith’s footfalls offer no sound, no sure hold. To step there is an act of belief, accepting evidence of sight, smell, touch, sound, taste. Step without confidence and gravity murders, the fall seizing limbs, skull, flesh, blood and muscle, milking sanguine tears on impact. Better to walk. Better to believe. Best to find life in the eggshell uncracked by need, unspoiled by longing, visible as birth and certain as death. #sky #plane #airplane #dusk #sunset #clouds #flying #flight #writing #writer #poem #poetry #literary_imagery #literary_original (at The Icarus Lesson)

Could it be believed, the way the day transported us? The way it buoyed our stubborn souls on blankets of downy mist that rolled out of view like sheets left in passion’s wake? We spun in chaotic ribbons of light that flexed with our need across the striated order of days. Disobeying the flat rule of hours, the precise delineation of up and down, left and right, night and day, we straddled the heavens in locked bliss, teased at the door of God with shaking hands, sunk our teeth into the shoulder of Nature and begged for more disorder. Beauty rolled below us where it was hidden from sight for the rest of the world. How delicious a secret, yet an unveiling promises to awaken this sleep infected world; our discovery suspending hopes in defiance of obligation’s gravity. Our revelation the beauty of chance design. #poem #poetry #sky #clouds #airplane #sun #literary_imagery #light #nature #stunning #writer #writing #thisiswhatyougetfromawindowseat #flying (at Overhead)