Metal music, vintage sound

feel the beat pulse all around;

Louder! Drown out my heartbeats,

drown out this fire that burns and overheats.

Play louder than my heart, perhaps I'll forget,

that it tears me apart, this unresolved bet.

Schrödinger's cat of blissful ignorance,

a stalemate, a draw, merciful ambivalence.

We could be a pair, like tequila and salt,

I'll just keep dreaming, 'til I wake with a jolt.

Smoke in my lungs, my hair in my face,

I'm lulled into numbness, in the music's embrace.

Sensory overload of lights and sound,

In a club's chaos, clarity I found:

Things will work out, in whatever way,

and even if they don't, I'll be okay.

Whatever happens, I know I can handle,

for I am a forest fire, not just a candle.

second hand pushes up
the weight of minutes,
in turn lifting hours

it struggles climbing
from seven to eight
slipping back a bit

by nine it trembles
but inserts itself
notch by notch

the last fifteen seconds
are desperations of
loud ticks

and when the twelve is
reached, it brief rest
is pushed overtime—

plunging straight down
to the six again,
loosely swinging.

the minute felt a slight
nudge forward, but the
hour paid little attention...



"the inertia of a moment"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved

We’ve been stretched over
the horizon of time
Waiting patiently to become
Preparing our souls to be one

I am now
You are tomorrow
We haven’t discovered
each other yet

Disconnected
Searching our understanding

I am your present
You are my gift of hope
There you go
Something in common

At the peak of life we are one

Time has generated an unfamiliarity with this space, and admittedly, I have not returned out of a diminished need. My bond with these four walls has been reduced to that of a tourist visiting foreign sacred spaces, seeking enlightenment in places where they cannot return.

The pictures painted on old white walls from light through stained glass no longer tell me a story; I only see pretty shapes, of which are reminiscent of a conventional child-like quality, where I can recognise alluring images, but do not understand what they represent just yet. This cathedral holds no new chapters for me.

I feel that my words of faith are composed by a ghostwriter. Although published under my name, they do not belong to me, and I can no longer claim them as my own. This journey was a marathon beginning at birth, and it’s time I stop running.