Last night,
I went for a walk within my dreams,
Traipsing through that dreamscape,
With nary a hand to hold,
Under a kaleidoscopic sky of grinning clouds,
Through violet and teal oceans of grass,
Crossing bridges suspended over fuchsia streams,
With the breeze singing sweet tunes in my ear,
It was a lonely trek,
But a euphoric one,
Alas,
The dream ended,
As the sun returned me to grey,
But does that world still remain?
Can I go back?
The wound you left,
Though invisible to the eye,
Is still festering and bloody,
As malignant as any other,
Just as replete with maggots,
Let there be no doubt,
The pain is very real,
Though no grimace rest upon my face,
Scarification by romance,
That is the cause of this wound,
My wound
A cavity where a heart once lay.
These days,
I’m more of a marionette,
Twirling on puppet strings,
Performing to no audience,
Jigging upon stained-glass,
Acting against my own interests,
These controlling cords,
They descend from somewhere above,
Puppeteer unknown,
Like veins pumping demonic blood,
Piercing my hands like stigmata,
Wrapped about my limbs like tentacles,
I’m so tired,
Yet here I pirouette,
I’m on puppet strings,
And I don’t want to dance anymore.
To an unassuming sun,
I awoke to some disturbing chill,
An inner cold I couldn’t place,
As if something intrinsic had dissipated,
My colours were dimmed,
My routines felt hollow,
My quills edge dulled,
All felt artificial,
My skin turned grey,
My eyes marring to silver orbs,
Like an unfinished fetish,
The magic was gone,
Supressed perhaps,
But for now out of reach,
The cause eluded me,
Had I wronged some witch?
Been bedevilled by some curse?
I knew not,
But the outcome was the same,
My own sorcery,
It’d been cruelly dispelled.
In sombre moments,
Some lament never being a first choice,
Looked over,
Beaten out by better picks,
Like in a jazzy gameshow,
A glitzy competition,
But if they are contestants,
What does that make me?
Am I just invisible?
A hidden option off the board,
Not even seen or considered,
The survey never says my name,
It seems the way,
I’m never in the running,
I’m shrouded like an anonymous player,
Whilst the others are on a showbiz stage,
I remain in the basement,
Unable to make out any live applause.
My worldly colleagues,
Fill me up with kerosene,
Give me paraffin,
Provide me that chemical incitement,
I want to fly,
The dirt never suited me,
Neither did the cold,
So allow me the skies,
To flit between sun rays,
And skip along currents,
Despite my fiery wings,
It’s not that I want to burn,
But to feel that ignition,
To chase the sunset,
And be applauded by the star-studded firmament,
With that glorious kerosene,
I’ll be a phoenix,
Salvation through immolation,
Finally burning up,
Finally being free.
I am overcast,
A sky of slate illuminated,
Gloomy yet somehow beguiling,
Backlit by an inner fire,
A sun of whimsy,
A haze of oddity,
There is a chill to my air,
A sullen and awkward disposition,
But the louds cannot bury every flare,
There is flesh and blood pumping,
Some inner effulgence eats through,
A candle in the dusk,
When you look at me,
Eyes straining,
There is a sun there,
I swear it,
It’s cloaked by grey,
But there is warmth.
Unknowing confidants,
They asked me how I was,
Not knowing the affront they presented,
I doubled over,
Wretching,
Finally spewing the blood of Olympians,
A flood of viscous ichor,
Black running down my chin,
This raven tide contained all manner of darkness,
Demons and skulls and unspoken nightmares,
Repressed personae clawing from the ink,
Certainly nothing holy,
These bleak waters held memories,
Hopeless images in every swirling bubble,
Cries for help,
The stygian contents of a soul,
Peering up from my knees,
Tear-strewn,
We locked eyes,
I spoke no words,
But they knew what I had said,
What the ichor had revealed.
If there is one thing I’ve learned,
Existing in this grey world,
Being oneself is paramount,
To follow the drones,
Is to run cold,
And risk the soul freezing in irrelevance,
To the world I say,
Withhold your brands and pigeonholes,
Save your derision,
Let the weird be weird,
Let the artist create art,
Allow them their eccentricities,
That freedom,
It can set a spirit alight,
Igniting the cosmic symphony within,
A supernova of myriad chroma,
A big bang,
Birthing a new universe of their art.
WorldofHarley 