Posts Tagged ‘time’

Do you still hear her voice?
A solemn call in the brume,
As the nights grow more beastly,
As the winds grow ever in tempo,
And winters spectre peers from behind trees,

Do you feel her caress?
By the fireside,
Under that sedate harvest eve,
As the atmosphere swims in sandalwood,
And the breeze tears up that amber carpet,

Autumn comes every year,
And it is a season of entropy,
So tell me,
Do you still hear her voice,
Upon autumns mournful boughs?

Many have come before us,
Men and women and tales aplenty,
Losses and victories and expirations,
Voices fading as every moment passes,
Though we can no longer see them,
They exist within us,
Codices and tomes in our veins,
We are living archives,
With histories branded into our spirits,
As well as templates for the future,
And that is the key,
To be templates worth recreating,
Ancestors worth remembering.

Let me off,
My life has become this wheel,
I grow tired of this rotating farce,
Each and every rung is the same,
Cheap plastic and flimsy build,
Run round,
Run round,

The scenery never changes,
The same streets and bus routes,
The same grey skies and pained mornings,
Let me off this hamster wheel,
My rodent heart could burst,
Taken by the horror of the whole thing,
Chance would be a fine thing.

We each have something we’re searching for,
All of us,
Across the seas and tectonics,
Through the years,
It is out there somewhere,
A lost treasure,
A jewelled cache of dreams,
Hiding just out of reach,

Not an object,
No relic or chalice,
Not really,
Nothing so droll,

But something grander,
Peace or family or happiness,
Your own hearth,
Or perhaps recognition of your sweat,
An immaterial nest egg,
Something to be cherished,
Not stuffed in a museum or vault,
A true everlasting treasure,

Never stop searching my friend.

People put so much credence in the past,
Like it’s a law under threat of death,
Those events are now all you are,
They supposedly cannot be escaped,
More dogged even than the reaper,
But I say the past is just a wound healed,
An obsolescence,
No more vital than knowing a mans favourite shade,
Yesterday should be obsolete,
Aside from the lessons learned,
Instead I propose you leave it behind,
Learn what you can and move forward,
It’s education not your whole being,
Pedagogy and not a cross to bear,
Look onwards to tomorrow,
There lies the true path after all.

From this automobile window,
Through tired eyes,
I saw it,
Or was it you?
A shadow play,
A shape illuminated from the horizon,
Organised by a curiously grinning sun,
A vision borne of questionable morality,
A questionable past,
It shifted before my eyes,
One moment a woman,
Identity unknown,
The next a spectre of a mistake,
Repeated perpetually in an obsidian pantomime,
The one thing these shadows held in common?
A peculiar element of nostalgia,
Corrupted and cruel.

A realisation struck me,
Like a thousand leaves falling,
That my soul is of an autumnal paradigm,
I resonate with the newly grey skies,
I am Halloween and melancholia,
I am not living but instead turning amber and gold,

When I say good morning,
I expel cold misty air,
I play with the increasing winds,
Hiding behind pinecones and shed leaves,
As the days harvest comes to an end,
I greet the growing night with a sombre bonfire,

I am decay,
Not death itself,
It is not yet winter,
This I know,
I am the march towards the end,
Not the ossuary itself.

Spring is come,
I see it in the daffodils legion beside the road,
I feel it on the warmer zephyr,
My ears heed the throng leaving hibernation,
The smell of fresh grass graces my nostrils,
I taste the cordial breeze upon my tongue,
My senses can perceive the shift,

The world comes to life again,
Shaking off the frosty mantle,
Bringing its head above the snow finally,
Taking a long-awaited breath,
Its veins bearing aqua unfrozen once more,
Like an archaic blade reforged,
The world exists anew.

As this first breath of the year comes to a close,
The reverie of the years change is history,
Pangs of brainwork nip my flanks,
A delayed desire for self-improvement,
A new years resolution a touch too late,

This is a winterborn ache,
The chill of january has abated my verve,
The sleet and rain washed away my impetus,
An unwanted frozen barrier to change,
Leading me to hibernate rather than live,

January doesn’t feel new,
Just more of the same,
More winter to languish in.

On this day of all days,
When my years grow overly pointed,
A thought forces its way to the forefront,
A sharp heartbeat of reflection,
A strange method of precognition,
A outre mix of dread and optimism,

I wonder if I should fear aging,
Does it hold monstrosity for me?
Is a mans birthday a tone of a deathknell?
Or a step towards elegance?
The unstoppable tsunami that time is,
One must either float upon it or be crushed,

Does your time pass like deluges between fingers?
Or gracefully like a claret past the lips?
Do you fade to grey in a bland ward?
Or go out in a tumultuous blaze of glory?
The years are a road with an uncertain end,
Either to a gentle hearth or off a cliff.