I’ve been
Catching
Dark Flies within—
Won’t you
Stay your
Welcome?
The You
So near
But nowhere found,
I am
Scrubbing
The Outside
To A
Shimmer—
Hoping
The Glare
Will bring
You
Around.
You see yourself
Bend and break
Into a million pieces—
Your dreams and aspirations
Deep in trenches—
For moments,
You begin to witness
Your withering:
A gradual,
Irrevocable decease
Of the once
Vastly immense
Well—
From which
Rose your strength;
Sets of spines
For
The Heavy load.
You see it,
This indefinite
Blackening
Of
The Sun—
The last breath
Of air
Escaping your lungs.
But
Do bite
Your
Tongue—
You may just
Forget
This dark void
And live
To See
Another Dawn.
You are not sure if it’s the full moon tonight, or there is simply something menacing in the air for all to breathe it in and exhale out their abounding miseries—
Blaming nature: the heat, the cold, the snow, the rain, the storms, the floods, the moon, and the sun; it’s the safest way to go. They are larger than life, so you won’t have to sound small and human by attributing the tragedy to other individuals.
All is said so there is nothing left to say. You kindly but unwillingly let them have their victories; in the end, it’s all irrelevant to you as to who gets in the last word.
You
Just
Cannot
Believe
Why
It
Must
Be
So
Difficult.
In life, we plan and plan; neglecting the haunting thought of sweet death and no tomorrow.
All is temporary
Yet no one
Dares
To
Believe in
The possibility—
Of
Provisional desire
Manifesting
Beautifully into
An Indestructible Endless.
Bring me the Truth,
Truth
Like naked bones
Of the Dead—
Now
Foul and ghastly, but
In time
Factual and harmless.
So
Toss and Slam and Shove
The Truth
To me,
Blinding and caustic
It might
Presently be,
But spared I will be
From eternal
Sorrows—
Invoked by the
Fleeting, empty smile
And the briefly comforting
Lies
You wear
And tell
So well.
I speak to Her
On occasions;
The exchange of
Recreational
Words—
It seems as if
We could babble
All day
And nothing
Would be
Of consequence.
Unaware, I would
Ramble on and on,
Not knowing
She is inwardly
All amber-colored
Kindness:
A silent,
Elusive Saint—
And that I am,
Despite
Mere, scattered desires,
Nothing
But
A mortal
Cottonmouth.
“I find myself wondering about humanity. Their attitude to my sister’s gift is so strange. Why do they fear the sunless lands? It is as natural to die as it is to be born. But they fear her. Dread her. Feebly they attempt to placate her.
They do not love her.
Many thousands of years ago, I heard a song in a dream, a mortal song that celebrated her gift. I still remember it:
‘Death is before me today:
Like the recovery of a sick man,
Like going forth into a garden
After sickness.
Death is before me today:
Like the odor of myrrh,
Like sitting under a good sail
In a good wind…'”
I walk by her side, and the darkness lifts from my soul.
I walk with her, and I hear the gentle beating of mighty wings.”
—Neil Gaiman, Sandman: Vol. 1, Preludes and Nocturnes.
“The ones
Who love us
Best,
Are the ones
We’ll lay
To rest,
And visit
Their graves
On holidays
At best.
The ones
Who love us
Least,
Are the ones
We’ll die
To please.”
You are free before the daylight sun,
And free before the nighttime stars;
You are even free
When you close your eyes
To all there is—
But you are a slave,
You are a slave to the one you love,
Because you love him,
And he loves you back.
Fowls in the wood,
Fishes in the flood;
And I must be Mad,
Much sorrow I walk with
For the best
Of bone and blood.
Particular Moments 