He hears those voices, distant, intimate
And trembles at their meaning;
Recognising truths, but unwilling to accept;
Embarrassed, unable to respond;
Reluctant to admit his failures and their insights;
Reminded of times left high and dry,
Where he screamed for recognition and connection:
When he cried in frustrated sobs, lamenting his lot;
Times imprisoned, within and without; close, but trapped.
He hears those voices, clear above the clamour,
And he knows they call to him, entreating;
And he knows he should respond, but his silence is protective;
His silence denotes the inner turmoil's unreconsoled,
And the coincidences yet explained and little understood.
And he's acutely aware that his silence is deafening:
Those attuned bewail, entice, threaten.
He hears those voices, but cannot, will not, respond.
He doesn't remember, as they obviously do;
He doesn't see how he fits the picture;
He knows he's attached, an unwitting cog;
He knows the cocoon's embrace is constricting,
And he pushes its warm security to his detriment;
Knowing his metamorphosis has taken far too long,
But knowing, all too keenly, premature emergence
Will have disastrous results - he still has the scars.
A Parthenon of voices amid a plethora of noise,
But he only follows some, until he stumbles upon another,
Then the pressure builds anew and he curses;
Screams - exasperated, vulnerable, open, exposed;
Naked and angry, unwilling to concede and unable to deny;
****** at the certainty resounding and the consequences entailed;
Annoyed, enraged; humbled, shamed.
He hears those voices, but is stubborn, unrelenting;
He knows the time isn't right and refuses to be pre-empted;
He sympathises with those aware for years;
He feels their frustration and resents their intrusion,
But the more they push, the further he retreats,
His dumb isolation has become the core of his existence.
"F**k them!", he thinks. "They've found their niche";
They've found an outlet, an audience, a forum;
They can ***** and moan, and draw thousands to their cause;
They can enjoy the fruits of their labours and wait;
Along with everyone else, they can wait;
He'll not be rushed.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
He hears those voices, distant, intimate
And trembles at their meaning;
Recognising truths, but unwilling to accept;
Embarrassed, unable to respond;
Reluctant to admit his failures and their insights;
Reminded of times left high and dry,
Where he screamed for recognition and connection:
When he cried in frustrated sobs, lamenting his lot;
Times imprisoned, within and without; close, but trapped.
He hears those voices, clear above the clamour,
And he knows they call to him, entreating;
And he knows he should respond, but his silence is protective;
His silence denotes the inner turmoil's unreconsoled,
And the coincidences yet explained and little understood.
And he's acutely aware that his silence is deafening:
Those attuned bewail, entice, threaten.
He hears those voices, but cannot, will not, respond.
He doesn't remember, as they obviously do;
He doesn't see how he fits the picture;
He knows he's attached, an unwitting cog;
He knows the cocoon's embrace is constricting,
And he pushes its warm security to his detriment;
Knowing his metamorphosis has taken far too long,
But knowing, all too keenly, premature emergence
Will have disastrous results - he still has the scars.
A Parthenon of voices amid a plethora of noise,
But he only follows some, until he stumbles upon another,
Then the pressure builds anew and he curses;
Screams - exasperated, vulnerable, open, exposed;
Naked and angry, unwilling to concede and unable to deny;
****** at the certainty resounding and the consequences entailed;
Annoyed, enraged; humbled, shamed.
He hears those voices, but is stubborn, unrelenting;
He knows the time isn't right and refuses to be pre-empted;
He sympathises with those aware for years;
He feels their frustration and resents their intrusion,
But the more they push, the further he retreats,
His dumb isolation has become the core of his existence.
"F**k them!", he thinks. "They've found their niche";
They've found an outlet, an audience, a forum;
They can ***** and moan, and draw thousands to their cause;
They can enjoy the fruits of their labours and wait;
Along with everyone else, they can wait;
He'll not be rushed.
21/1/2010
The Missing Link - Gaia's Boy Toy