Aug 2015
Blank pages are instruments gathering dust in cellars of a palace once made of music.
Laughter fell in saturated droplets dripping like tears down still glass windows as the present blended in to memory.
And the laughter and the tears fed the river whose rapids once flooded the landscape of my mind.
Creatures of imagination, products of paper are crumbling. All the dragons turned to dust.
Does inspiration come at will? Or do you will it, thus it comes?
No, it comes like falling snow, gentle petals of crystalline individuality or
In torrents of the ephemeral rage of ages.
We had no snow this year, cold air pregnant with promise.We lived instead on the verge of expectation
with winter not yet born before it died.
Confused creatures braved the cold air
anticipating spring aeons too soon.
But the flowers didn't know and bloomed in sunny colours weighed down low with frost.
They hang their heads and crumble. Crumple. were they paper anyway?
The summer sky can be just as empty.
The land breathing calm under the sun's cautious care.
Its life juxtaposed to an empty mind, the ocean lying still in stagnant, airless dark.
I don't retreat to fantasy when the vibrance lies around me.
But still the music is gone.
And the hallways stand silent in the rain, their ends frayed and faded, their destinations gone.
And hesitant sounds plucked in the emptiness coax out jarring twangs.
The sound is wrong.
Yet the song itches at the back of my mind with infuriating patience
consistence
And so I play away,, the screeches of lifeless instruments echoing,
till my mind is naught but steel wool tangles
snarled
and rough
and angry.
and lurking in the darkness lie the lies that once were truth the memories I fled from, taste of rotting youth. I am looking for a lifeline, for a road to lead me home, because the current is still flowing, though th water looks so still, and the fear inside is growing filling all it finds until...
This page, it still feels empty.
And this poem has no end, because the destination's broken.
Broken pieces fit together, but they cannot make a whole,
so the rain falls on and dust falls slow ,
and I'm standing in the cellar with my pages in a row,
my pen is dripping laughter, but it's falling to the floor,
The ghost of me is leaving
and I can write no more.
Laughter fell in saturated droplets dripping like tears down still glass windows as the present blended in to memory.
And the laughter and the tears fed the river whose rapids once flooded the landscape of my mind.
Creatures of imagination, products of paper are crumbling. All the dragons turned to dust.
Does inspiration come at will? Or do you will it, thus it comes?
No, it comes like falling snow, gentle petals of crystalline individuality or
In torrents of the ephemeral rage of ages.
We had no snow this year, cold air pregnant with promise.We lived instead on the verge of expectation
with winter not yet born before it died.
Confused creatures braved the cold air
anticipating spring aeons too soon.
But the flowers didn't know and bloomed in sunny colours weighed down low with frost.
They hang their heads and crumble. Crumple. were they paper anyway?
The summer sky can be just as empty.
The land breathing calm under the sun's cautious care.
Its life juxtaposed to an empty mind, the ocean lying still in stagnant, airless dark.
I don't retreat to fantasy when the vibrance lies around me.
But still the music is gone.
And the hallways stand silent in the rain, their ends frayed and faded, their destinations gone.
And hesitant sounds plucked in the emptiness coax out jarring twangs.
The sound is wrong.
Yet the song itches at the back of my mind with infuriating patience
consistence
And so I play away,, the screeches of lifeless instruments echoing,
till my mind is naught but steel wool tangles
snarled
and rough
and angry.
and lurking in the darkness lie the lies that once were truth the memories I fled from, taste of rotting youth. I am looking for a lifeline, for a road to lead me home, because the current is still flowing, though th water looks so still, and the fear inside is growing filling all it finds until...
This page, it still feels empty.
And this poem has no end, because the destination's broken.
Broken pieces fit together, but they cannot make a whole,
so the rain falls on and dust falls slow ,
and I'm standing in the cellar with my pages in a row,
my pen is dripping laughter, but it's falling to the floor,
The ghost of me is leaving
and I can write no more.
