Posts Tagged ‘Sorrow’

The days insanity has come to an end,
Your body is weary,
Its defences worn down to soft grain,
Your head pounds with harmful influences,
You lay it down to recuperate,
Upon your factory of dreams,

Unforeseen the silence crawls over you,
And with it the demons multiply,
Salivating over the cracks in your psyche,
Malicious maneuvers in the dark,
They would ravage you like countless hypodermic needles,
Save for the defence resting above your bed,

An arcane symbol from the first nations,
Molded of willow and spider sinew,
Spindly weaponry of Asibikaashi,
A conduit through which your dreams can be mobilised,
As an aetheric crusade against the night,
Old magic to protect you until the morn.

I feel off-kilter,
Somehow weighted to one side,
The mind hangs in the balance,
A set of scales nestled in our egos,
Ungodly yet ornate,
Lifes events are as weights on one side or the other,

Life can bring circumstance of both good and bad,
Too much of either can be destructive,
Positive and negative,
Success and heartbreak,
Narcissism and misanthropy,
Use these events as lessons not additions to your id,

Either weight dropping is a fell stroke,
One way leads to decadence,
The other a fall to adversity,
Both are forms of insanity,
Both will destroy your own soul,
Both are evil by different modus operandi,

Do not allow your scales to dip,
One must strive for balance,
Be as a pendulum,
Map a safe travail through lifes hills and valleys,
The ups and downs,
Protect your minds integrity.

I descend in to my sarcophagus,
To rejuvenate this faded corpus,
To replace grey with luminosity,
My self-imposed hypnosis,
Death with benefits,
My nightly reprieve,

Hither to my closed eyes comes a slideshow,
Disjointed images with no rhyme nor reason,
Castles riding upon clouds and birds flying backwards,
Conversations that never occurred and lessons never taught,
Stars playing chess with bolts of silk,
Vagaries and illusions in tropical colours,

My sense becomes a nebula,
Colourful and vibrant in the extreme but vaporous,
This nightly madness has done its due,
I awaken scarred and grinning,
Feeling ever more liberated but less stable,
A clown ready for the banal day,

Until my next death,
Next rest.

I could tell you of numberless beasts,
My voice could be a bestiary,
Of sirens and goblins and demons,
Of dragons and gryphons on the wing,
But instead I speak of a creature not of nobility,
But cruelty given wings,
Sadism in the sky,

You’d be forgiven for believing it a vulture,
An unkempt avian with a fair maidens gaze,
Perched atop the expired skeletons of trees,
Indeed it is a glutton for mens hearts,
Both symbolically and physically,
She will gladly carouse with you,
Winning your heart before plucking it clean with talons,

Beware the harpy,
For the nectar she offers is bile,
The words she speaks are barely contained storms,
Her kind have scavenged for eons,
Leaving legions of hoplite bones behind,
Curiously graceful in their barbarity,
Flight wasted on cruelty.

This thing brings back memories,
A reliquary for a piece of my soul,
I grasp it close to my chest,
And take a jaunt down a familiar lane,
Both greet me as warm friends,
Happier times in golden years,

I need not describe this object,
For it is different for each of us,
A parental heirloom or gift from a personage departed,
But regardless of its somatic form,
The pure magic of sentimentality is at its core,
An ember of the past,

And it is true the past can be a scar,
Maybe even still riddled with maggots,
A twinge in the gut,
But this object can be as a lense,
Seeing past the memorial blockade that plagues you,
And perceiving the happy images of your life.

Do you think the Earth has a gravekeeper?
An elderly man worked to the bone,
Not truly living himself,
A retainer of Father Time,
Caked in mud of prehistory,

Tending to markers of civilisations that have fallen,
The graves of cultures rotting,
Peoples long past,
Traditions preserved in dirt and amber,
Their stories insulated against times decay,

He is a curator of memories,
Propagator of the ways of peoples of eld,
Pyramids and ruins and spires,
Egypt and Inca and Cree,
Among others these graves will not vanish into dust,

Whether lost to famine or conquest,
Plague or assimilation,
Old flames will be kept alive,
Flowers will bloom upon their epitaphs,
For all to remember and learn,

Our gravekeeper digs evermore,
His shovel groans in earnest,
All cultures fall to the grind of time,
All empires collapse,
Our western culture indeed has a grave waiting cleared.

You would not have noticed me,
It’s entirely alright,
I am an essence blessed of mediocrity,
As I extol my virtues and values I am see-through,
I am every shade of grey between lifes colours,
The type one walks by while looking at the sidewalk,

I’m nothing special,
Barely subpar,
Middling at best,
A gemstone found to be fake,
An unnoticed epitaph of a man,
A walking grave of someone with promise,

I write cold tales and impish sonnets,
A doomsayer and miser on a street corner,
You would not have heard of me,
But it’s alright,
I am nobody,
I am nothing.

Among the dank forests of mud and blood,
You catch the scent of cauldron glub,
Ingredients combined in a frenzied hubbub,
Magical energies coalesce in a flood,

Sticks and stones,
And forest animal bones,
Among leather-bound tomes,
Not to mention victims groans,

A hag lives here,
Behind mask fashioned from skull of deer,
And ornery robes of woolen shear,
Many centuries alive has this grey seer,

Dare you not irk her,
Lest you lose all your heads fur,
And see frogs pads where your hands were,
Followed of course by a cold grave inter.

Aloft I hold this charred skull,
In the parlance of Hamlet,
Mocking the heavens,
Eye to eye,
Ocular to cavity,
Azure to dark void,
A hateful grimace grows across my face,

I feel the desire to interrogate this spectre,
Of inevitability,
Of decay,
Of entropy,
Of black veils and autopsies,
The unwanted rest and ones left behind,
Of an end like a runaway train,

I hate all of it,
I hate you death,
I resent the fires of hell,
And the zephyrs of heaven,
I hate your wielder of the scythe,
I hate that you force this rot upon us,
I hate that this all ends,

In the laconic gloom,
I swear the skull grinned back.

Look at me,
Gaze upon my singular face,
Hark to this clown,
For it takes a fool to see the truth of things,
A madman to understand the world,
So I daub each colour upon my jesters aspect,

This face of paints,
It shifts like a tumultuous sea,
Replete with vivid corals of all shades,
Prismatic tsunamis as expressions shift,
Yet this mind is more of a circus,
I’m a deranged showman in truth,

I wield these colours instead of emotions,
Each chroma deciphering an aspect of reality,
To shine light on mans vices,
They are my true face,
For it requires lunacy to be totally free,
And insanity is the only truly sane way to exist,

An arbiter of pure chaos,
True art,
A clown to point the crooked way,
I’m the Oldschool Harlequin.