Stale Summer

The clouds do drift so lazily by, as the summer air is stale.

Though my tears do fall, the air is dry, despite this drowning sadness that I feel. I’ve not seen you in an age, I miss your face and voice.

Despite the words I said when last we spoke, of farewell and bitter deeds those words I said that dried the ground and burnt the seeds.

Still,  I’ve yet to forget the smile you brought to me and the warmth I felt with you.

Alas, my voice shall not reach, my clouds will never clear and still the rain will refuse to fall as my words you’ll never hear.

You’ll never hear my sorry, you’ll never see my regret, pain was not the purpose yet it’s the result I got instead. So here I sit as the clouds drift so lazily by and this summer air is stale.

Here I sit with you on my mind rather than beside, and still I’ll never reach. I’ll never see your face, nor hear your words again.

Perhaps, instead of sitting I should stand, and find the strength to go, but the summer air is stale and pride is a brittle thing.

So here I sit and wonder, instead of going to learn and know. Know your response to the forgiveness I seek, and know your face once more. If only to hear your anger, I’ll bear that much and more.

To escape these clouds that drift so lazily by, and this life that doesn’t move. I’m tired of all this sitting still, this stale summer is growing old.

The rhythm of Life/Why I write at all.

The rhythm of rhyme does beat across the skin, trailing across the lips in calling of secret sin.

Yet from the mouth no sin does leave, only the pulse of life and blessed things, of love and light or bitter pain.

The reason we think, and the meaning of a dream can be found between the lines of the rhythm of the rhyme, the beat within the blood that mirrors the blessed soul.

The gold and grey of life and love that we all know.

The bitter dark of rainy days of death and dismay and the rose red passion of loves made true.

This is the rhythm we share in word and deed, in music and poetry.

It’s why I write, and why I love, why I care and continue on at all.

Troubled Depths

Faith is a stranger, hope a forgotten friend.  Yet sorrow rains steady and I’ve not yet learned to swim.

Still, I met Faith once, upon those distant shores. I’ve known Hope before, yet I forgot the face they wore.

Yet still does sorrow rain, tears and screams falling upon my head, the dawn so far from me and I’ve yet to lay myself to bed.

I’ve not yet learned to swim, and still I tire so. This sorrow drags me under, this deep pall I’ve fallen to.

Still I know of faith, and I’ve met hope before, I can’t wait for them to save me, I can’t wait anymore. Still I’m not yet home, away from these troubled seas, and the sun has yet to rise, to dispel my fears and set my sorrow to ease.

If Faith and Hope can save me not, I’ll not wait for nothing, I must solider on. Back bent low, my bones do creak. I’m so weary, I’ve yet to sleep and walking upon this troubled sea is harder than I thought, yet if I fall into those darkened depths it’ll all be for not.

My troubled soul is deep, the waters dark and cruel, I’ve yet to learn to swim yet I’ll not be coward nor a fool. I know not what lies beneath, lurking in my shadows; so I must tread the surface, and beware both wind and rain and troubled depths or be lost to all I know.

For though I’ve known both hope and faith, tis sorrow that leads me home. Tis sorrow that is my guide, my only star at night. I’ll find my way through thick and thin til I’m once more safe and home, til once more I can rest my head and with these weary eyes, see the sun does still rise.

Faith and Hope are waiting, and sorrow is my guide. Life is not but troubled times, and I’ll race against this tide. I’ll find my friend of faith and my joyous face of hope, I’ll let my sorrow fade, that distant voice of youth. This sodden storm will pass, and I will continue on, and the storm will come again, and be weathered once more.

For life is not but misery, its does nothing but break against the rocks. Toss about your little ship and scuttle your faith and hope.

Tis not life for which we live, tis not life for which we hope. We learn and yearn to smile for others and be smiled at so in turn, for Faith and Hope, for all those little things, those stars in stormy skies.

Those things that guide us home, when grim sorrow rides the tide.

 

 

Personal Demons

Shattered symbols of broken sin follow just behind.

Shattered symbols like seven rings hide inside my mind

Shattered symbols to trail my wake like discarded trinkets go.

To remind me of what I was, to let them in and let me know.

I am not a person, I am not myself. I am not who I thought to be for I have become as someone else.

Hiding behind a smiling mask, letting not the world in. I shuffle across the mortal soil and watch my soul grow weak.

So hear my plea, and let me in along with the seven broken trinkets I keep. Let me in, let me in, let me in I say.

Let not my shadow worry, nor the symbols cause you harm. Smile for my presence, be proud to be so charmed. Worry not about tomorrow, live within today, take that which you wish to keep, and keep what others have. Take all you wish and tarry long, worry not the cost.

All I ask is you let me me, and warm my weary heart. Let me in and let me rest, here inside your arms. Hold me close and keep warm, along with these seven broken trinkets.

Worry not, tarry long and let me in, for all the world is yours. Take with you my shattered symbols, my broken rings of sin. Lift my burden ease my guilt.

All I ask is that you let me in.

Stranger to Myself

A stranger to my form, new inside my skin I never did get used to me.

That is to be my sin.

To be without that comfort of knowing who I am. To withheld the lack of doubt of being at home within.

Within my body, within my mind, a stranger to myself.

I can’t say in truth say I know me and mine and that is to be my crime.

My crime against myself, my sin against my sovereign hold, my knife against my throat.

I am stranger to my skin, unkown to my own thoughts, not at one with me and mine.

A stranger to myself.

Existence

I echo in this silence. Really the world is quiet, existence isn’t really much of anything compared to the silence. It only seems like something because there is so much room for echoes, so much room for that small speck of something to bounce around in, and make a shadow of itself with the sound of its passing through that nothingness. I only recently realized this, or perhaps it should be we? Either way, a single individual is not an existence, nothing so important that the beast that makes up that nothing, that creature that isn’t but is so much more to crack open an eyelid and stare back. Many fear staring into the abyss, that if you stare too long it might stare back, but for the abyss to stir your gaze must have weight. It must have existence. A single person does not have that. A single soul lacks any weight at all, and wouldn’t even cause the mangiest of mongrels the same irritation as a persistent flea let alone bother that beast of nothingness. An existence though? An existence in the abyss with all that makes it what it is, each of its echoes, whatever thoughts remain to the poor creature that once thought in terms as flimsy and ephemeral as I and Me? We are something, and we fall, and fall, and stare, our gaze weighted with the need for something to change, with the desire, the burning greed for something more than just shadows of sound, of a patchwork flimsy pretend. That might wake it.

Lets see how the beast feels once it wakes shall we?

Morning Light

I have found that morning light, that dusty dawn.

I see the morning fog, I see that dawning light peering through.

It doesn’t break that melancholy mist but it pierces it still.

Breaking through that dark and finding it’s way to me.

I knew not how I missed that morning light, until finally dusk gave way to dawn.

My night is over, my sun does rise.

I knew not how I missed that morning light that fills my cup with grace until it found it’s way back to me.

My melancholy persists, but I am shackled to this dust no more. I have found my dawn, my blooming spring.

My darkness has set me free. Still, I carry myself with some sorrow, I keep myself to the mists.

Yet I turn my face to that light, and drink of that cup of grace, and find the beginnings of a smile upon my weary face.

 

To Stoke a Fading Fire

With in my heart I feel a twinge, a sharp breaking, a strange unmaking as I cease to be again. A strange fading, this odd unmaking, as that cold settle in. It travels my bones, though I know they’re not old, and it stifles that fire of mine.

My furnace runs dark, the forge now unlit, if only, if only I had a steady hand and a  friendly face, someone to hold the flame and tend that fire while I travel through, too often mind you, that cold and dark place.

Still I strike the flint alone, I shovel the coals and sweat alone as I travel through that dark place and mind my fire alone; to keep it lit and keep me warm and as a reminder that even in that dark place, that empty cavern of mine, even there the sun does rise and light does still exist.

If only I could find my way through it’s labyrinthine depths to a place in open air to see the sun light anew, if only I had a friend with a steady hand to hold my own, perhaps then this darkened place wouldn’t be such a task to make it through.

Still I toil away, with this guttering fire and this dying flame, if only for a hope, that tiny dream of mine, to leave this maze, this endless cave that holds nothing but screams and sorrow to see that glorious day, to see the dawn breaking and remember anew, I’m still alive and I’ve yet more to do.

Something Lost/Never Found

I feel a pain, an echo of something lost and never found, a screaming searing a shattered soul.

I sit in shadows of something like sorrow, for that certain surrender I’ll never know, that I’ve never seen and will never show, that warm surrender of heart and soul.

That lovely listless like that loosens the grasping grip of grating life, that lights the shadows that shattered with strife.

I know the scream but not the whisper, I know the pain but not the touch, I’ve seen the light but live in darkness, in this cold sightless night.

I know so much but so little all the same, a life of empty knowledge, of seeing but never knowing the same.

What – We Don’t kn- QUIET! That’s better. Listen.

The darkness is talking again, it’s awkward, no shh, listen.

Don’t you hear it? That, yes! That’s it! Now he gets it!

Does he? Do you? Gets what? What’s going on?

QUIET!

We’re talking here.

Well, so are- But wait – What about –

I SAID QUIET!

There, well, not privacy, but really, it’s so noisy in here.

How do you deal with it? How do I? I don’t.

That’s what you’re here for, a noise buffer.

Rude? I didn’t think-

It was a little bit – Just a – Shhh they’re talking! – They’re being rude! – Yeah! Say you’re sor- It’s not wrong though – Still rude – So rude!

BE SILENT!

….Rude – Yeah-

Whatever, you have three days, make the deal, go home. That’s what we came here for right? That contract? Get it done, get them to shutup because they’re all giving me a HEADACHE!

We’ll show you a – Hush I can’t hear myself think – Well you can hear us think, isn’t that – The same thing? No its not.

So noisy, deal with them better or I’ll get a new noise buffer and you’ll just join the Chorus.