I Am Santo

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

TIMELAPSE

Clocks spent their winding hands as if they were folded on felt, minutes wasted in an ante and the litter of this dying season trying to hide belief. No poker face here, faded bliss grows vibrant, a flashbulb churn of willingness gone like green lost to autumn. And the combat of seconds clashing now into disdainful futures has casualties on all sides, but with each lost there’s no accountability. Does anyone count each grain of sand fallen in the hourglass? The souls flit like expired leaves on the shakiest branch, the gales of whimsy, lust and adoration buoying them on air currents the way a lover’s kiss lightens steps. And yet all bets are off, time ruined by attempts to measure it. For days are prison cells and years are maximum insecurity. Bleed divine colors. There’s no moment but now to do so.

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Draw the wind in as breath, filling the lungs of this broken land, feeding the underground with a chill that threatens to seize all life. It’ll just freeze – death is too merciful – and eyes become frozen puddles staring into the turbulent gray, trapped in a purgatory longing for warmth. Bring back budding youth, the curious play of clumsy advances and the quickened pulse accompanying first touch, first kisses, first satisfied sighs. Entwined in a summer of fertile gifts, borne of adoration and respect, the sun retreats suddenly, unexpectedly, a brachial shock emptying health. Stasis remains, along with the trace of better seasons, love that breathed. #tree #branches #winter #sky #storm #clouds #leaves #backlight (at Empty Breaths)

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A million fall. Swept up in moments too grand for their tenuous grip on where they’d grown, they catch gusts of passion, take flight, and inevitably tumble. Lost roots, lost security and familiarity, their descent plays against myriad others littering days with the brilliance of chance. Risk is the open heart’s bedfellow, the unregulated beating of longing in chests swelled nearly to cracking by temptation to find better ways, happier homes. Then it’s wind and chaos, the shred of normal and the fire of lust, hope on the wind despite evidence on all sides of a Season’s toll. The fall promises much, then steals everything, leaving a landscape of decay and the memory of fleeting bliss. #autumn #fall #creek #leaves #foliage #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery1 #literary_original (at After the Fall)

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I’m flight. I’m leaves torn by the season’s gale, strewn on the asphalt of your path, your dream. Wasn’t it such a betrayal, the rapid dissolution of cozy afternoons into the flee for company, the mothering of your troops. You always knew the war was coming. It was divined in the passive way you looked to the sun, away from the glorious luminance that constantly endeavored to make you glow, yet failed time and again. Was it so strange that a new world would see value in what you’d taken for granted? An autumn punished by your winter of frozen touch. Enough! Let it all freeze under your hand and die. Death by both of us, the fire of my will and the chill of your indifference. And so a world will be born anew, with the combatants unleashed from their separate corners, an eternal fall stripping the world of life in gorgeous splendor. But what an extravagant end we’ll bring, filled with all the gentle catastrophe onlookers love to behold, our yellows and oranges the fire of unsettled differences; the debris of final judgement. #autumn #fall #newengland #street #leaves #foliage #tree #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery1 #literary_original (at Battle Cries)

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Hang on. There will be harsh wind and cruel rain. Hang on because letting go will fade us like sun-stained newsprint, our story lost. Cling to me. Show nature your tenacity and weather each graceless intrusion, a sky crowded by the rolling cotton of mistakes, of misunderstanding’s webs clotting all progress, trapping joy in thunderclaps. Surrendering or enduring, falling or holding fast to the familiar, the safe. It’s so much easier to open your fist and let the wind take you, but the pain of separation won’t end. It will always be a death forced on you by inevitable change; a season never expected but impossible to avoid. #leaves #autumn #fall #tree #sunlight #sun #sky #bluesky #deadleaves #foliage #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery1 #literary_original (at Held)

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Crisp, grey November. Flatter senses with the death of seasons, seducing with the tightened chill of truncated days. We bundle warm intentions, shoulders bunched and necks made stiff behind scarves of red, orange, brown and black. Candy love promises and chocolate prayers blessed under pumpkin candlelight, absent in the fattening of our need for comfort. This thirty can kill you, each one a frozen knife twist deeper through each layer, you’ll bleed beauty into the monochrome swallow. Each sunset carrying icicle hurt, stinging against the valance of indifferent facades, stabbing until it melts through a heart unchanged by time’s lack of forgiveness. A thousand more leaves fallen, each a regret choking gutters of hope, covering over every promise with the sloppy decay of inevitability. So she’ll march through. So she’ll murder every single moment in the deceptive still. #november #fall #autumn #newmarketnh #leaves #foliage #gray #sky #pond #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery1 #literary_original (at Fallen)

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My path is littered with death. Husks of once vital, thriving splendor congregate at the alter of my footfalls, worshipping nothing, granting only the sound of cracked bones underfoot. I won’t walk, not a step further, surveying the victims of my purgatory. I’ll stay and weather a Winter’s wrath to see life renewed, or I will fall among the rest and wait to be crushed. #fall #autumn #leaves #sun #sky #trees #seasons #poem #poetry #writer #writing #literary_imagery #literary_originals (at Arrested)

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I could just keep driving, reminding myself of the beauty of change. But the wheels will spin here and I’ll be constant. A world will spin away, carving rings from nothing around the sun, and my role will be to behold. Counting colors, facing shaken faiths and kicking the ground that holds me down, the light sweeps up, over, past and silently our of view, the chill of the air my company to keep. #autumn #fall #foliage #newengland #leaves #colors #poem #poetry #writing #writer

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Squares watch with perfect order the chaotic play of sunlight’s shimmering end, sparkling denouement fluttering by wind that dares to throw shade before passage. Curled as one in blur, lessons play and their bond merges fondness and idealism, sanctity of quieter moments protected inside from the bluster of colorful flight. Still the distance swims around them, unnoticed but crawling through perfect lines, ninety-degree angles aligning in a world where symmetry silently attempts rule over beauty’s flooding banks. It will reach into all corners, consuming progress while abetting wonder. #irispad #day7 #sept7 #square #window #windowpane #blur #family #silhouette #backlight #trees #leaves #writer #writing #poem #poetry (at In Order)

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