The world is a busy place,
A billion souls crawling over each other,
It saps ones energy,
At times we must be alone,
To recuperate away from others,
Like slipping into a soothing mudbath,
Just you and the mire,
Recharging under the sodden surface,
Only bubbles for company,
Vitamins to the skin,
Minerals to the soul,
Being alone in this mud,
It’s not loneliness,
There’s therapy in the silence,
In the muck,
If only for a little while.
Humans are golems,
Not of stone and clay,
Sculpted by artisan hands,
But a patchwork of ordeals,
An amalgam of experiences,
Lessons and trials knitting flesh,
We are rendered sentient by our stories,
Line and verse within each vein,
They make us who we are,
Gearing our natures,
Augmenting how we interact with the world,
No tale is ever the same after all,
And stories are fireproof,
Even at the point of death,
Our narratives continue on,
Blended with those of our loved ones.
Life is a revolving door,
A contraption both devilish and glorious,
Spinning within a cyclone,
A tornado of crises and marvels,
Spied through lucent glass,
Dizzy,
So dizzy,
Other figures ride alongside,
Friends and enemies,
Lovers and nemeses,
They get on and off at random,
Stepping out of sight and mind,
Whirling,
Still whirling,
As the years go by,
The door spins slower,
The options dwindle,
Eventually it’ll cease,
With only a single destination,
Silence,
No more heartbearts.
Time has trained us to go fast,
Too fast,
Too rushed,
Too occupied,
It’s a coach that’s pushed us too hard,
Accelerating each year,
Running over aspirations in its path,
Modernity is some kind of stimulant,
Petroleum to a match,
Sprinting towards our coffins,
Our lives have become skip buttons on LED screens,
Not slow enough,
Not carefree enough,
Not free enough,
The Earth is a blur of coloured motion,
We dismiss the small connections,
No longer feeling the rain or grass,
Only enjoying life in passing,
We’re too busy climbing the heights,
That we miss the sights.
It rains upon me often,
Like a migraine that won’t pass,
This heavy cloud,
It used to bother me,
Send chills all over,
Summon the darker aspects in my mind,
But no more,
Now it is just so much mist,
The sorrow is naught more than vapour,
I learned something you see,
Showers are intermittent,
And the sun always arrives anew,
Resting above me,
The rain may drench my face,
But I brought an umbrella,
And even in this sick world,
Rain doesn’t last forever.
When you gaze up at her,
Have you ever wondered,
Why the moon has a crescent?
It’s to remind us of the scythe,
That iron kiss we all imbibe,
Not as a threat,
But to remind us to live,
The moon is an attentive beholder,
With an ivory grin,
She rests high in the firmament,
And she sees all,
A thin veil of clouds like maids-in-waiting,
Frantically failing to cover up their queen,
Lest her form be compromised,
She is the more shy of the sky’s orbs,
Dame Solar exemplifies life,
While Lady Lunar venerates the dead,
Her message is just as vital though,
That death can come randomly and unannounced,
That’s what the crescent tells us,
Willed on by the night-time air.
On occasion,
There comes a time,
When a soul steps right out of a comic,
Cape and all,
Ordinary folk with extraordinary mettle,
A flesh and blood hero,
Perhaps they pluck an infant from an inferno,
Selflessly interrupt a mugging,
Or raise a fortune for philanthropy,
You see,
Heroism is the heroin of heroes,
They can’t help themselves,
Something ethereal urges them towards good,
And neither should they stop,
We need more Robins and Wonderwomen,
The world is villainous enough,
There has to be a redress of balance somehow,
So champion your everyday champions.
I feel as if I’m in an ice age,
My own arctic circle,
Turning cold after a long temperate season,
A period of social mosquitoes and foul gelato,
The climate had to shift,
Now I spy people through ice sheets,
Natures looking glass,
I see how they were melting me,
Diluting me,
Making campfires under my esteem,
So I’ve grown wintry in reciprocation,
Yet I am not heartless,
For the right souls I will thaw,
But I’ve been too summery for some,
Those who wouldn’t brave a blizzard with me,
I don’t want your Titanics to strike me,
Disturbing my icy peace,
My encased heart,
I’m no longer your iceberg,
No longer your undeserved warmth.
We are atheneae,
A collection of tales and tomes,
And we decide how that knowledge is circulated,
And to whom,
Not all deserve your stories,
The lore of your ways,
That is earned,
Let your mind be apocrypha,
Esoteric to the outside world,
A library for the few,
Only the steadfast should know,
Let others guess and conjecture,
They are just priests of control,
Inquisitors and book-burners,
You know what you know,
You are your stories,
Your canon is yours alone,
It is written upon your bones,
Protect it as you would a child,
Let it survive,
Let it be apocrypha.
WorldofHarley 