Treading on through the hazy crowd
This circus dims with every dawn
Every dawn, I say, every dawn
Not the funeral, nor the mother knows
But dusk is a pitiful thing
Wrecked and lone, a pitiful devour
Overruled by its own shade
The crumbled clouds
Plummet upon us
And our skeleton hands
Sculpt gods out of mud
One for lightening,
One for the calm
One unborn and one undying
For you one, for me
We worship them then
Light up a fire that runs down our veins
And we bow
It is a beautiful blasphemy
A painful ecstasy
As the goddess within
shrivels to stone
And dust becomes the funeral
The mother
Dawns kissed and kissed
By dusk’s benevolent shade
The jester lies still with his king
And swords are headstones
Ripping skulls apart
Only uttered eulogies bathed in red
Dusk is a pitiful thing
As flames gush out of our skins
And ground can hold no more
Gods, gods still
One for war
And one for birth
One loving, one deaf
For you one, for us
Mortals, we trod through our immortal realm
Deathless we’re buried in her stoney arms
Dusk is a pitiful thing
Gods mourn our funeral
We, mothers no more
The circus dims
Dims to life with every dawn
Every dawn, I say, every dawn
30/06/2021
I kind of like this one, it sounds vague but I ...
The hazy crowd is the world around me, I walk through the places and with time, they keep on fading, keep on fading.
The funeral, the doom, does not know it is awaited, and the mother, the hope, does not know it is called.
But even this darkness, this despair is pitiful. Alone and broken, it worships itself helplessly.
There is chaos then, but not like explosions or deaths, like smoke falling from the sky. It is quiet and soft, slowly wraps us up in itself
But we don’t notice, we’re too busy making perfect role models out of worthless things
We give them names, distribute them evenly among each other and worship them in hopes that doing so will make us better, make us what we desire to be.
But the gods around us only make us forget about the divinity inside us, we worship our creation as the goddess in us dies. Then, when one’s identity is taken away, there is no doom, no victory, no funeral is feared and no mother is awaited.
We let what little of light there is left be devoured by the gentle darkness.
It is then the kingdom inside oneself. The jester, the one who performed, is dead and so is the king who the jester performed for. There are no battles for the swords to fight, and no gravediggers who might write eulogies on graves.
It is then, when all seems on the verge of its end, we, in our desperation, pour all our worship out. We give one last try, bow before our gods, and still have not learned.
Then the last bits of goddess stills and everything fall apart inside us.
Gods are gods still, now too powerful a creation to be undone.
The immortal realm was the goddess, the kingdom she ruled inside us. Now everything in that kingdom is still as stone, but we are still alive.
But even as the last bits of despair cover up all we ever knew, we still believe that dusk is pitiful.
Our gods cry for our funeral, our doom, but not for us. We are their creators no more.
It is then, that a new realm begins.