Version of You

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In the morning, early morning, I rise to a new day

Like a soft caterpillar, emerging from its cocoon

I peel off the shell of yesterday and crawl out from a silken blanket of sleep

My window is dirty, but the sun struggles though to greet me

I press my face to the cold glass, and I know that I am alive

As if reborn, I know I am different. I am no longer the same

______

In the darker moments of my regret,

I see your face, I tried to forget

In those times when I am the weakest,

And life seems the bleakest,

I recall your fall, and worst of all

I know the fault is mine to claim

I’m not the same, I’m glad you came, but I’m to blame

__________________

And it’s not as if I haven’t imagined

If there was something I could have done different

As if a stone set in motion can be stopped or stalled

The trajectory’s set,  we were doomed to be spent

And yet I feel guilty, as If I should have called

It’s irrational, I know, but I’m desperately flawed

_________________________

But thanks to you, I’ve become a better thing

There’s something here that was never there before

And I’d be remiss not to thank you for that

Regret is something we all have on our shoulders

But thanks to you, I now have a stronger back

_________________________________

In the darker moments of your regret,

I see your life, and it’s not over yet

In those times when you feel the weakest,

And life seems the bleakest,

I recall your fall, and best of all

I know there’s hope for you to claim

I’m not the same, I’m glad you came, it’s time to change

___________________________________________

Breath in this new day,

Embrace this newest version of you.

________________________________________________________________________

~j.d. schofield

This Chapter Penned in Pain

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When I Look into your darkening eyes

Your eyes that dim with passing time

I see a world, a broken universe, a place that transcends

All the pain I know you’ve been feeling

The hurt you’ve known without healing

The wretched wreck of your horrid past

__________________

When I look into your eyes, your darkening eyes,

I know a strength resides in the sinews of your soul.

A determination to see this through

A lesser man might surrender,

Embrace the shadows that welcome the weary to the other side,

But your heart is strong. I see you fighting, though your body’s failing,

I see you gripping onto the ones you love,

An impassioned fire that rages in your chest,

Even as it grows harder to fill it with oxygen to keep that fire alive

________________________

When I look into your eyes, your  fading eyes,

As I stay here beside you, as you lay there dying

I am not unaware of your aching, I can keenly see how hard it must be

You could embrace a peaceful end,

But you fight, and though with each breath your grip on this life loosens,

I see your will, iron clad and brandishing courage, waging war on inevitable death

For though you are dying, in this moment I know, you have never been more alive.

________________________________________

You were made to live. Thank you for choosing to fight, and to struggle until the end.

Finish this chapter strong, do not rob yourself of the precious gift of time,

for it will not exist in the next.

~j.d. schofield

“Hymns”

inspired and adapted from Project 86′s “Chimes”

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I hear a noise from the bell in the tower ringing
Summoning all mankind to forsake their sinning
To a place where they claim to pray
Where hymns are played
Where teaching never ceases and “night is day”
I’m dulling my senses away to move into their net
With my spirit aware of what they really meant
I hear a message, a damning voice start to rise
“Surrender all your thoughts and realize you’re blind
Tomorrow isn’t coming, so accept and fear.
The time is now, so give up all that you hold dear”
This hint of disaster is a man in a suit
As he grins, he pretends to proclaim the truth.

“I’ll take you to a place where hymns are playing
To a place where the truth are words we’re spraying
I’ll bring you to a state of fear engaging
Where your reasoning dies with lies I’m saying”

I’ll take you to a place where every seat is full
Where spirits like kindling dry and dull
And where the song of the hymns keep playing
And outside the stained-glass the demons are swaying
I see the eyes as they stare but the mind is empty
Now I’m defined by my lifeless state
By fear and hate
I’m dreaming about a second chance to find the truth
Rewind the clock and reclaim our youth

“So follow me, follow me,
follow me to truth and I’ll show you”

~by j.d. schofield

The Travesty of Our Media Saturated Minds

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I work 9-5. I work hard, like you.

I sit down at my desk. Four grey walls. I log into a labyrinth of software applications, and I put my headset on. I scour search engines. My browser is cluttered with tabs. I am in perpetual communication. In another window, I have another browser running. Another plethora of tabs. Email, Social media, business websites, etc. To my left, my tablet is plugged in, leaning against some books displaying my calendar. To my right, my smartphone is plugged in piping upbeat music into my skull through green ear buds featuring bass so rich, it’s like dark chocolate for my ears.

When my brain starts to go whack from work, I read up on some hilarious movie reviews over at “Thoughts We Might Have Had.”  I might do some writing. . .  I’ll watch a few youtube clips. I scroll through endless newsfeeds from Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, etc. I’ll sort out some of that pesky spam in my Gmail inbox. Read some conservative rant about guns, read some liberal rant about education.

Then I go back to work. Equipped with coffee, and a new Pandora station, I propel myself through another couple of hours. I get a text from my wife. I check a voicemail from my dad. I block that meme-crazy “friend” who just can’t stop. I like a goofy photo of a good friend.

I go home. I wander the lands of Skyrim while my wife makes dinner. We watch Frasier on Netflix while we eat.

None of these things are bad. But sometimes, I wonder how my mind might blossom if I just wandered alone in the wilderness for a while.

That’s right, I want a cave. A dark cave in the middle of the woods by a lake. A place to let my beard grow long, and I can howl at the moon. By candlelight, I will use sharp pieces of granite to etch my stories into the stone of the earth.

 

~j.d.schofield

 

 

Whisper

Whisper… Don’t whisper?

I can hear them. The little birds. They sing nice. I like it when they sing.

Sometimes I think  of the sun, and the grass in the field. I like to put my fingers in the dirt.

I like to feel the cold earth in my hand, and the warm sun on my face, and the strong wind on my back.

Whisper… Don’t whisper?

It’s not like I have never thought of it, you know? It’s not like I don’t know what i’m saying.

But it’s all a little frightening, really. Eyes closing. Going to sleep. Sleeping, I mean. I’m a little scared of it, you know?

I think everyone is. Where do you go? Will you ever wake up? If you do, where will you be? When you wake… If you wake.

Whisper… Don’t whisper?

It’s reasonable, I guess. When I put my hands in the earth, they get dirty. When I let the sun on my face, I get burned. The wind chafes my skin. I know that. Everybody knows that.

But sleep? Who knows about sleep, anyway? Why should I be afraid to sleep? It’s not like anyone knows – for certain, I mean. People guess, I guess.

Whisper…

I should miss the sun, I think. I know it burns me. But I don’t know that I mind. It’s warm and it is bright. The earth is cool and healing. The wind fills me with life.

And yet I am tired, you know? The birds sing. The little birds. I can hear them and I smile. Have you ever listened to the birds and wondered what it is they say? What it is they mean? I do.

Whisper…

I’m feeling heavy. The sky is so heavy, and I don’t know how long I can hold it up. The grass is so soft, and it is asking me to lay down. I’ve been standing so long, listening so long to the birds. The cool earth. Could it heal me from this burning sun? Could the wind get along without me? Holding up that great big sky all by itself? I hope so. The birds need a place to sing. I need to sleep. I hope I wake up. I wonder where I shall?

~j.d.schofield

sunsets_landscapes_nature_wheat_1920x1080_wallpaper_Wallpaper_2560x1440_www.wallpaperswa.com

 

 

Rubra Pallium

In ominous tones the shadows of dusk fall

With a groaning, a moaning, the black trees sway

Shadow begets shadow as darkness descends

Like a heavy blanket of foreboding woe

The air, like a frozen hag, is whipping about

the barren branches of the valley

Hissing and whispering to the inevitable night

with frost upon her blistery tongue

a carpet of decaying vegetation is scattered and tattered

across the earthen floor of the wood

with fallen limbs reaching from underneath

like the arms of the dead clawing forth from their muddy graves

Through the midst of this cold and desolate wasteland

not a sound can be heard

save the crunching steps of very light feet

Two little feet that navigate this pathless void

The snapping of twig and the rustling of rotting leaves

Darkness consumes the wood. Through the branches

black clouds can be seen boiling in the slowest of motions

Moving with the lethargy of an old and haggard woman

Fissures of sky rip through the still and frothy firmament

at random intervals, haphazard in their shape and

allowing the steely bolts of frozen moonlight to cut into

the dark wood and destroy tiny patches of darkness

a amber-violet haze challenges the shadows, but does not defeat them

the darkness and the aura of refracted starlight war with each other

a slow and thick war

Mist fills the void, and the little steps can still be heard

The only physical expression of life

through it she moves

Ever westward

Step by steady step

Slow and determined

The darkness does not disturb her

For she is her mistress

And she is her mystery

Scarlet

blood red

the only color

the only life

to contradict

to compliment

this cold and desolate scene

her features cloaked

enveloped in shadow

and illuminated by the moon

~j.d. schofield

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The Poet. The Pen.

Drip… drip… drip…

Feel the ebb… and… flow…

Drip… drip… drip…

From the pen… so… slow…

Drip… drip… drop…

From the table, from the top

See the little river sliding

See it waver, see it stop.

As it pools. As it sinks.

Ever staining as it drinks.

Over parchment, see it gliding

from the palm where it’s residing

hear the scratching from the writing

as he thinks.

~j.d.schofield