Posts Tagged ‘Sorrow’

Once I soared,
A plane built on dreams,
Yet lo did the winds change,
I was broken up in mid-air,
By bird strikes and heartbreaks,
My wings clipped,
Rock bottom welcomed me as a brother,
Fire and shrapnel were its gifts to me,

I am a crashed aircraft,
My frame was shredded,
With nuts and bolts scattered about my head,
Bound anew to the depressive earth,
Craters were my cellmates,
I work each day and night now,
Sweat and blood and kerosene,
To get myself back out of this wreckage,

And fly once more.


They expected worship,
Praying by the riverside was never enough,
Your exaltations not exuberant enough,
You had not bled enough,
Your knees not nearly scalded enough,
You are too free,
How dare you practice prayer unbridled?

They demand more,
Always more,
Those people from the spires,
Those who talk to clear skies,
They need you,
So an aquatic conversion must be performed,
Directed by a man in white,

The preacher forces your head down,
The river takes you,
A loving embrace,
Currents trying to warn you,
Drowning you before their holy water does,
But they take you from the river,
Into a set of invisible manacles,

This is an incarceration of a new kind,
The binding not of the wrists,
But of the soul,
How dare you practice prayer unbridled?
How dare you practice liberal heresy?
Freedom of spirit is a sin,
That man-made book says so,

The river could not save you,
Its waters muffled by echoing sermons,
Liberty drifts away.

Ahh my friend,
With that face that sings detriment and praise both,
You ask,
What is wrong with me?
Both everything and nothing at all,
That is my answer,
Everything is wrong while nothing is wrong,
I smile loud and proud on the outside,
Inside is naught but a hollow porcelain doll,
My voice preaches homeliness,
While internally I tear down the wallpaper,
My visage shows no damage or cracks,
But broken glass is in these veins,

Do not worry for me my friend,
Nothing is wrong,
But everything is wrong.

It’s a shiny new day,
A seasons shift,
Just the setting for a metamorphosis,
An evolution,
The birth of a new lifeform,
My next adventure in aesthetics,

So I paint my hair a new blend,
Scrub on a new face,
Give my wardrobe some new marching orders,
I am a new man,
But it’s a farce,
Life has not truly shifted,

New look,
New me,
But same problems,
Same nightmare,
There has been no true change,
It is hollow,

Aesthetics are not contentment.

I stood there judging the sky,
Wondering what it all means,
The grey answers back in spite,
Scorn upon the clouds,
A copious downpour of rain descends,
Speaking in tongues,
The scent of fresh lawn and dew rises in chorus,
It burns my eyes,

This interaction draws on for hours,
It collides with insults upon asphalt,
A cacophony drowning out my thoughts,
Thunder quakes distantly joining the orchestra,
This blue veil the downpour has laid over me,
And the chills that comprise it,
They whisper in my ear,
Who am I to judge the sky?

Silence has a language all its own,
It can say multitudes,
Cold shoulders and awkward voids,
Leaving galaxies of words betwixt you,
A vacuum of unknowns,
Cutting deeper than any sharp tongue,
Burning hotter than any torrid brand,
Vowels of muted tension,

No answer is an answer itself,
A criticism or jibe on mute,
Saying without saying,
It can put across a point clearer than any diatribe,
So if you wish to truly destroy,
Say nothing,
Let your spoken silence work its design,
And leave all decimated.

Around me lies a void of dead space,
A cold vacuum,
An orbit of haunted shipwrecks and scrap debris,
Broken spacesuits and heartbroken asteroids,
A desolate astral barrier,
Silent and lonesome,
It’s between me and the cosmos of society,
Their planets are lightyears away,
Muted and hazy,

I don’t mind it though,
I shut off the oxygen valve myself,
Flushing myself out.

There was a man from Amsterdam,
Who had fallen foul of the reaper,
Taken from life a touch too soon,
In the morgue he did repose,
Waiting for so-called family who’d never show,
His family had forsook him years ago,
It was thought he’d rot alone,

But this was still his big day,
So along came the poets and civil servants,
Bouquets and verses in tow,
To perform this hallowed show,
To send off this main failed by society,
To gift him a final valediction,
The words,

Rust In Vrede.

There were times,
Even in the darkest caves of my depression,
That I was most at rest,
Most sedate,
Most in tranquillity,
Almost cocooned,
Within an ice bath of sterile numbness,

Once the tears have dried,
And the throat is already sore,
Then comes the numbness,
Calming yet terrible,
Sat on that lonesome bench,
With only my tired thoughts,
And the grey carpets of leaves,

But in truth,
The solitude is addictive,
The silence is the finest symphony,
A melody of soothing needles,
A drug my weary mind savours,
It’s dangerous in all honesty,
You almost don’t want to get better.

Do the skies suck away compassion?
Because I see aviators without humanity,
Bomber crews without hearts,
Execrable souls within an iron demon,
Screeching along the zephyrs,
Where even angels fear to follow,

Does the pilot care for those his bombs flatten?
The lands rent by his payload?
I daresay not,
They simply cheer in patriotic tones,
Smirks underneath aviator caps,
Careless of the mushroom cloud in their wake,

They return to their air base sancerre,
And toast to the screams.