the momentum
of this thing......
is beyond us now.
it has it's own life,
feckless and free.
always rushing foward,
without thought...
to cost or methodology.
is is madness, uncontained
an unbridled and ferocious thing,
racing, raging across the plains of inner sanity,
howling at reality.
running in circles
and raising,
a dust storm,
of desire
and deniability.
this thing,
wants not moss
or memory it wants....
passion and creativity.
the pouring out,
of the still waters,
that come from the
stagnant ponds and lakes,
of unloved corners,
in distant hearts.
this momentous
and puissant, calamity,
desires only,
to live and die briefly,
ever so brightly....
in a conglomeration
of magnificent,
twinkling junctures......
like fireworks set,
on and against
the indigo night skies..
all heat and glory
all colour and bang
all inspiration and reaction.
and then, when
the momentum,
slows and dwindles....
is finally spent.
it will, as always, lie down
and quietly cease to be....
leaving as an aftertaste,
both sweet and acrid bitter...
just a vague feeling
of nostalgic irrationality.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
the momentum
of this thing......
is beyond us now.
it has it's own life,
feckless and free.
always rushing foward,
without thought...
to cost or methodology.
is is madness, uncontained
an unbridled and ferocious thing,
racing, raging across the plains of inner sanity,
howling at reality.
running in circles
and raising,
a dust storm,
of desire
and deniability.
this thing,
wants not moss
or memory it wants....
passion and creativity.
the pouring out,
of the still waters,
that come from the
stagnant ponds and lakes,
of unloved corners,
in distant hearts.
this momentous
and puissant, calamity,
desires only,
to live and die briefly,
ever so brightly....
in a conglomeration
of magnificent,
twinkling junctures......
like fireworks set,
on and against
the indigo night skies..
all heat and glory
all colour and bang
all inspiration and reaction.
and then, when
the momentum,
slows and dwindles....
is finally spent.
it will, as always, lie down
and quietly cease to be....
leaving as an aftertaste,
both sweet and acrid bitter...
just a vague feeling
of nostalgic irrationality.
inspired by creation of
a theatre piece.... a showcase of work by students...
one show only.
Request permission to use this poem