Once invigorating, now banal and blasé,
Their veritable magic was surely to stay.
"It's only your tolerance," is what I was told,
But idly waiting has begun to grow old.
I'd have paid more attention had I known just how soon
Her magic would wane, like a post-harvest moon.
Though indeed much was learned, elusive flashes remain
Of her psychedelic wisdom, gone like a flame
put out by the rain.
O to return to that meadow of mirth,
Traipse through dew-strewn grass, greener than turf.
Blessed with joy were those days in which I could feel,
Whence I’d discovered their uncanny appeal.
Perhaps a memento, some nostalgic reminding
Of depression unwinding, uncovering joy,
The relief of a father who hears, "It's a boy!”
The triumphant return of that happiness lost,
Only just for a minute, without thought of the cost.
I will surely be moaning once I have found
The specter of gaiety I feel lurking around
The bend beyond which I shall surely remember
The reason for which I feel wholly dismembered
Until then I will wipe away tears as they come,
Which descend from my eyes although I am numb.
Though such heavenly feelings are not meant to last.
An arcing foray like a fisherman’s cast,
It soars to its peak before gently landing,
Briefly submerged before rising and standing
Upon unplush plains of pain and sobriety,
Most fall to their knees as if praying with piety.
And though they might pray with utter sincerity,
Promise to both those alive and posterity
That if they are taken around only once more,
That never again will they knock upon His door,
Nor will they ask him a favor, blessing, or chore,
For only one taste is desired of yore.
That Feeling I chase like a ray of the sun,
Head down, charging forth, even deigning to run
But invariably, ere two months have gone passed,
Dullness descends, ending joy’s songs of the past.
It replaces contentment with grey, tepid numbness,
I remember the time I saw Mr. Tumnus
With Jake and Nadine, each now an alumnus,
Of the College of Psychs, where learned we of oneness.
The bell jar is descending, I cannot escape,
They call it depression but more aptly it’s ****
For I feel as though life has taken its ****
And shoved it in my *** oh boy is it thick!
It ***** me as if I'd done wrong or owed it,
It’s a good thing I'm numb; I might have imploded
Long, long ago, perhaps upon entry,
The two weeks since using feels like a century
Strange sirens from without harass me within,
Each cell in my body writhes as withdrawal begins.
For whose mercy do I plead? Or is it a pinch,
Do I hope I might wake from a dream and unclench
My fists which I plan for our God to receive?
One in each eye and then one in between.
Mysterious indeed are the ways which He works,
Confounding enough, in fact, He causes to perk
Up the heads of the miserable wretches,
Who believe in His lies. O how one retches
At such a shamelessly scandalous, immoral regime!
If the Church is His house then His words are its beam
From which hang their ropes, creaking taught under the weight
Of pallid, limp bodies; this the inevitable fate
Of one who will do and **** even think and say
When and how He commands, with a joyful “Hooray!”
And who would not obey and cheer at this grand fate
Promised to those Souls upon reaching His gate?
But have faith O they should, nay they must if they are
To escape life’s futilities, the looming bell jar.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 2:40 PM UTC
Once invigorating, now banal and blasé,
Their veritable magic was surely to stay.
"It's only your tolerance," is what I was told,
But idly waiting has begun to grow old.
I'd have paid more attention had I known just how soon
Her magic would wane, like a post-harvest moon.
Though indeed much was learned, elusive flashes remain
Of her psychedelic wisdom, gone like a flame
put out by the rain.
O to return to that meadow of mirth,
Traipse through dew-strewn grass, greener than turf.
Blessed with joy were those days in which I could feel,
Whence I’d discovered their uncanny appeal.
Perhaps a memento, some nostalgic reminding
Of depression unwinding, uncovering joy,
The relief of a father who hears, "It's a boy!”
The triumphant return of that happiness lost,
Only just for a minute, without thought of the cost.
I will surely be moaning once I have found
The specter of gaiety I feel lurking around
The bend beyond which I shall surely remember
The reason for which I feel wholly dismembered
Until then I will wipe away tears as they come,
Which descend from my eyes although I am numb.
Though such heavenly feelings are not meant to last.
An arcing foray like a fisherman’s cast,
It soars to its peak before gently landing,
Briefly submerged before rising and standing
Upon unplush plains of pain and sobriety,
Most fall to their knees as if praying with piety.
And though they might pray with utter sincerity,
Promise to both those alive and posterity
That if they are taken around only once more,
That never again will they knock upon His door,
Nor will they ask him a favor, blessing, or chore,
For only one taste is desired of yore.
That Feeling I chase like a ray of the sun,
Head down, charging forth, even deigning to run
But invariably, ere two months have gone passed,
Dullness descends, ending joy’s songs of the past.
It replaces contentment with grey, tepid numbness,
I remember the time I saw Mr. Tumnus
With Jake and Nadine, each now an alumnus,
Of the College of Psychs, where learned we of oneness.
The bell jar is descending, I cannot escape,
They call it depression but more aptly it’s ****
For I feel as though life has taken its ****
And shoved it in my *** oh boy is it thick!
It ***** me as if I'd done wrong or owed it,
It’s a good thing I'm numb; I might have imploded
Long, long ago, perhaps upon entry,
The two weeks since using feels like a century
Strange sirens from without harass me within,
Each cell in my body writhes as withdrawal begins.
For whose mercy do I plead? Or is it a pinch,
Do I hope I might wake from a dream and unclench
My fists which I plan for our God to receive?
One in each eye and then one in between.
Mysterious indeed are the ways which He works,
Confounding enough, in fact, He causes to perk
Up the heads of the miserable wretches,
Who believe in His lies. O how one retches
At such a shamelessly scandalous, immoral regime!
If the Church is His house then His words are its beam
From which hang their ropes, creaking taught under the weight
Of pallid, limp bodies; this the inevitable fate
Of one who will do and **** even think and say
When and how He commands, with a joyful “Hooray!”
And who would not obey and cheer at this grand fate
Promised to those Souls upon reaching His gate?
But have faith O they should, nay they must if they are
To escape life’s futilities, the looming bell jar.
