like the sun shone

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Tag: Sorrow

A fission of soul

Thou art destruction

To believe anything other than this
would be a sin
for within, the fire within, it lives
where it is kept in check by the crease
of thine own mirror’s aging visual sorrow
where it can only be seen peripherally
so it is quite invisible
until the moon shatters the disguise
if it can be called a disguise
more probable is its name; a fission of soul
where the rip
burns deep within
where that sharp loss of connection
to this visual
this
fire within
this destruction of mine own art
feels so much like feathers being torn
being ripped back from tip to stem
in ugly painful destructions of flight

… is it this?

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Artificial Atmosphere of Civilization

~

Listen to, breathe in and taste the pungent
where once music sang amongst the trees
where once the air invigorated
where once eating was real
and where each was once one’s own mind
but now
in this time of greed, futile deaths, global one-upmanships & scaremongerings
and the religious balloonings of creation
we are surrounded
by an artificial atmosphere of civilization
where trees are shrouded in tentacles of grease and darkness; their songs all but forgotten
where our lungs are attacked on a daily basis; antibodies scream in disgust
where chemical wrapped food tastes of food wrapped chemicals; painful temptation encroaches
and where what we think, what we are and what we believe is no longer ours …

in this artificial atmosphere of civilization, where only the perfect make the shelf

; sorrow begets perfection begets sorrow

~

~

With thanks to Achilles Daunt for giving me the title

this, December thing

~

As cobwebs grow while we sleep
so does this thing
this, December thing …

How it throttles, suffocates and destroys
how it becomes a pestilence within the silent beats of winter
this, December thing …

The emptiness of broken promises
echoes from the sorrows of children to the sorrows of
this, December thing …

How it settles within bones, upon skin and like a question of blood
how it envelops with its pretence of realism
this, December thing …

Each movement choreographed to make belief believable
while deep in the bowels of truth it festers
this, December thing …

How it seduces, enchants and dazzles
how its cosy fireside warmth births solicitous souls
this, December thing …

Like the chill of death’s cowl
it touches memories with sparks of things long gone, long lost
this, December thing …

How it breathes with such passion, beauty and an evanescence of time
how it reaches in to kiss with the sublime heaviness of falling feathers
this, December thing …

~

How I wish … but this … this December thing, cuts my soul to pieces …

… and ever on the wanderer toils

~

… and ever on the wanderer toils
to collect the wind-blown mighty spoils

From whence he came
to where he travels
he cannot answer
for his echo, unanswered

He watches with an unfeigned smile
his eyes a-twinkling
his heart on fire

He is the keystone
between light and dark
reading the script
to be the guide and to hark

… and ever on the wanderer roams
to collect the vestiges of broken souls

To sing, dance and fly
are his only wishes
but Earth-bound mortal
his solitude immortal

He speaks of the silent crashing waves
with his spirit and life
with his peaceful malaise

He is the leaf
‘pon which the dusts settle
for his rain of love
gives our rust its mettle

… and ever on the wanderer dreams
to collect the ticket for his own release

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