From time I lay in bed and listen to the Shindler's List sad violin music and stare at the ceiling...never been much of a religious man but if id believe in anything it be to whatever higher power that lets man create music with such honest, real, raw emotion at that piece of music.
The picture that comes to my mind is a bird in winter exhausting looking for food...as the blanket of snow covers a once green field now lays dead...I see myself as that bird...ever looking...ever hoping...
But because its simply a bird and its understanding of the severity of its situation is as oblivious is as its innocence...will it succumb to the cold bitter world and lay in that snow...rest in peace my little friend...for you and I are one in the same...
With fingers from behind the bed that reach out in the dark
The wrinkled skin, and sharp chipped nails...reminds you that shes come
You hide underneath the blanket, with little to no hope
As if standing upon the gallows staring at the rope...
Death comes in many forms...its unclear...which may come
But know that when it picks your name it leaves your body numb
It whispers your name...as if in a prayer
And if it takes you early, it leaves you...with no heir
Don't ask what it looks like for none that live will know
And if you go searching its power will surly grow
Like Meadowlarks upon the wheat
Who's songs speak of truth
I lay upon the field of gold
I lay there as if mute
Their songs can be heard from miles around
A sweet song they sing
For the memories of lovers lost
Is a...all to familiar sting
I reach out to grab the sun which leaves me in despair
The memories of what has gone is to much for one to bear
The breeze bring a simple touch...a kiss upon my face
But quickly does it remind me of this vast empty space
I lay here upon this field...that dirties my clean shirt
The stains of which I've earned... remind me of the hurt
Dear sweet meadowlarks sing me your songs of joy
For all that's left of me... is a lost little boy
I find myself upon hallowed ground...
Amonst a courtyard of marbled stone
Whos touch is as cold as the winter night
Whos names are as blurred as the morning fog
That blankets the truth from unfamiliar eyes...
The leaves blow around me in a dance as if rehearsed
I find myself lost amongst this peace...
Never welcomed...never forgotten...
For what lays here is but a memory and a promise...
A promise that I shall return...and never leave...
Will that day be as cold as today?
As empty as the freshly dug graves?
Who will fill them?
All this quarantine and death has made me fall into a pit of despair so immense and deep that I have forgotten the warmth of the sun...its gentle kiss upon my face...
You make me feel as small as a single grain of sand... that falls in an hourglass as dark as the corners of a unlit room and lost forever like the secrets of children unborn to mothers buried from a short-lived life unloved and forgotten.
“Where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor no more? In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will never weary? Where is the foundling’s father hidden? Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it.”
― Herman Melville, Moby ****
One of the most raw and emotional things i have ever read and or heard be read.
I love Herman Melville may his words forever be available for future readers and writers alike.
Where does the sunset go?
With orange fire to lead its way
And I a bird upon a tree
To gaze upon the sky so free
Where do the stars begin?
On horizons deep and true
And what reflections do we see upon the morning dew
What truth is spoken upon our wake
What lies are worth a word
A box hidden that holds the ground
For where my love is found
My love for you is surpassed by none
For its true, pure, and free
For whistles from kettles sound upon a cup of tea