By: Dalyn K. Roney
Give me an hour and I'll tell you a true story.
give me a minute and I'll tell you a joke.
Take but a moment to see who I am.
Look into my eyes and see tales untold.
Show me a dreamer and I'll tell you a dream.
Point out a philosopher. I'll reveal truths from lies.
Take my hand and I'll share my journey
Down Fate's path written in mind's eye.
The book of Life's pages are turned by the wind.
Give me a chance and I'll tell you how it began.
Sincerely,
Father Time
Wednesday, November 14, 2001
Sunday, October 28, 2001
"Insomnia"
By: Dalyn K. Roney
Turning pages of a book.
Watching shadows on the walls.
Hours stretching impossibly onward.
Stinging silence almost tangable.
Cleaning rooms and doing chores.
Restless with the pressing stress.
Constant exaughstion and missing times.
Idle hobbies of great importance.
Laying in bed awake. Thinking.
Dreamless nights of constant waking.
Painful tears which spring without reason.
Nagging doubts in self reflection.
Longing for safety, peace, isolation.
Coveting rest on an alter of rarety.
Hoping for solutions to worthless problems.
Perhaps I'll sleep tomorrow.
Turning pages of a book.
Watching shadows on the walls.
Hours stretching impossibly onward.
Stinging silence almost tangable.
Cleaning rooms and doing chores.
Restless with the pressing stress.
Constant exaughstion and missing times.
Idle hobbies of great importance.
Laying in bed awake. Thinking.
Dreamless nights of constant waking.
Painful tears which spring without reason.
Nagging doubts in self reflection.
Longing for safety, peace, isolation.
Coveting rest on an alter of rarety.
Hoping for solutions to worthless problems.
Perhaps I'll sleep tomorrow.
Friday, May 11, 2001
"untitled"
From a journal entry:
I feel almost as if I'm floating. There are times when the music I write flows through my entire spirit from my hands. I wish I could have constant companionship of that muse which sometimes favors me with its magic. It is then the spirit moves me totears, and I write beautiful music. And I cry. Because I know as soon as I remove my hands from the piano, and once the notes are played, that I will never remember the tunes again. They return to the muse on their spirit wings. And I sit and marvel at the magic of the world.
This is the mood I'm in now.That magic and solitary feeling of contentment that encourages you to write poetry or make love...
I feel almost as if I'm floating. There are times when the music I write flows through my entire spirit from my hands. I wish I could have constant companionship of that muse which sometimes favors me with its magic. It is then the spirit moves me totears, and I write beautiful music. And I cry. Because I know as soon as I remove my hands from the piano, and once the notes are played, that I will never remember the tunes again. They return to the muse on their spirit wings. And I sit and marvel at the magic of the world.
This is the mood I'm in now.That magic and solitary feeling of contentment that encourages you to write poetry or make love...
Saturday, February 10, 2001
"untitled"
From a journal entry:
... I don't know why I continue to write you. As if, through words, I could make you feel - see into my heart and pull from it the knowlege I fail to find for myself. Sort through the rising panic to discover something real and not imaginary. Something validated and alive within Me. Something beyond the hungry darkness, which tares at my soul and livelyhood; tirelessly. Something there, glowing in the receses of a heart unused and dusty. Unexercised in exerting its physical power on the one who controls her.
Somewhere in the laberynth of this horrid confusion there could be an answer to that aweful, undefined question, lurking just beneath all valid consciousness! Anywhere! Perhaps if I continue to write long enough, something will clarify. Something. Perhaps...
Perhaps that is the problem. Fear. I am afraid for you. Afraid that the preditory darkness haunts you as well. How are you? I never know. Who are you? You never let me see. Where are you? I shall never discover, for that is a magical far away land with no form or reason in this state of depiction.
I am afraid. Even now that the sun has risen to push the the shadows away. Though they are now even more dangerous as they hide. Even now as the winds of torment have been bridled in, and the rains have ceased, and the torrents of fears, and questions, and doubts have come to an end.
Now I sit in this aweful silence which continues to persue me. Now I continue to wait. And the most aweful part lies in that there are still no answers to discover, after so many questions. Why? ... why? ...
So small and delicate lay those words. Pregnant with a thousand meanings, questions, and accusations. The never ending teeth felt by these malignant words; which aren't statements but questions. A thousand hidden meanings. Where lies the prayer book for this nightmare? Where hides the thoughts to my words? Where lies the meaning in these answers? How does the confusion poison my thoughts and actions? Why does this madness envelope me?
Who will save me? Who loves me? Who is he? When...?
... I don't know why I continue to write you. As if, through words, I could make you feel - see into my heart and pull from it the knowlege I fail to find for myself. Sort through the rising panic to discover something real and not imaginary. Something validated and alive within Me. Something beyond the hungry darkness, which tares at my soul and livelyhood; tirelessly. Something there, glowing in the receses of a heart unused and dusty. Unexercised in exerting its physical power on the one who controls her.
Somewhere in the laberynth of this horrid confusion there could be an answer to that aweful, undefined question, lurking just beneath all valid consciousness! Anywhere! Perhaps if I continue to write long enough, something will clarify. Something. Perhaps...
Perhaps that is the problem. Fear. I am afraid for you. Afraid that the preditory darkness haunts you as well. How are you? I never know. Who are you? You never let me see. Where are you? I shall never discover, for that is a magical far away land with no form or reason in this state of depiction.
I am afraid. Even now that the sun has risen to push the the shadows away. Though they are now even more dangerous as they hide. Even now as the winds of torment have been bridled in, and the rains have ceased, and the torrents of fears, and questions, and doubts have come to an end.
Now I sit in this aweful silence which continues to persue me. Now I continue to wait. And the most aweful part lies in that there are still no answers to discover, after so many questions. Why? ... why? ...
So small and delicate lay those words. Pregnant with a thousand meanings, questions, and accusations. The never ending teeth felt by these malignant words; which aren't statements but questions. A thousand hidden meanings. Where lies the prayer book for this nightmare? Where hides the thoughts to my words? Where lies the meaning in these answers? How does the confusion poison my thoughts and actions? Why does this madness envelope me?
Who will save me? Who loves me? Who is he? When...?
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