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.
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.
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?
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!
….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.
Echoes and currents of thoughts and ideas, of dreams that died and words left unsaid.
The regrets that haunt my sleep and rattle around inside my head.
Ephemeral currents of sadness too deep, of happiness unknown, and this anger I keep.
It’s like a ghost on my shoulder, the demon that speaks, it provides unspeakable inspiration, yet the cost is too steep.
The exile is lonely, the wanderer is cold, I stumble through this night, and all I want…
All I want is a home.
Falling in to place pieces of pristine palaces parade down paradise lane.
The garden gathers grotesquely the rotten ripe fruit of of fallen forsaken fathers as morose mothers meander down the forgotten few road.
Children cry carelessly while carrying on without care and the garden gathers further.
Carrying burdens draped in cloth while those seen as burdens gather around, bound for the field of standing stones and burning pits the pristine palaces parade down paradise lane, a lane that no longer has a name as all fall to nothing.
I live within the arsonists choir, singing praises for raging fire.
We see it burn, we hear its call, we sing the fire’s blazing song.
I live within the arsonists choir and I am next, the chosen pyre.
Hear my song, sing my praise, until I am gone and only ash remains.
I do burn, I do rage, I am fire, the eternal blaze.
Burnt to ash, blackened dust, my praises sang by the arsonist choir.
That congregation of those waiting to embrace conflagration.
Feel the rage, feed the fire, embrace the pain, hold the flame.
Until not remains but ash and praise, in this…
The arsonist’s choir, our funeral pyre.
So The Foo Fighters caused this one, as it was inspired by their song “Something From Nothing” so figured I’d mention that one. Good song that one.
Oddly fitting this airy flitting, this flowing floating flowering I find inside my mind.
Waving, wavering thoughts of fleeting smiles and cheerful chuckles floating on floundering ground a strangely sinking happiness I never thought to be found.
A sense of ease at these oddly fitting flitting fleeting ephemeral thoughts of ease that do indeed please, leave me a smile and a thought that in this moment I am indeed grateful to be.
Happy to exist, a pleasure to see, and while I’m happy, for this floating fleeting moment I’ll say with a smile and a wave “Happy to meet you!” with a nod and a quickly added “Good day!”
It’ll not last, that I’m sad to say. But instead I’ll smile and remember, the sad days that stay too long are the ones that make this fleeting floating an ephemeral dream, something that echoes long after its gone.