Rettrahk

Rettrahk Sep 2016

During my odyssey, I once came upon a world with a broken kingdom,
and a king who floated blissfully, as his empire burned to ash beneath.

And I asked, "Do you not see your home down there,
crumbling to dust? You, the king, why do you not writhe,
not avenge your people, or spill your own blood in despair?"

And the king smiled, the coldest mirth in eyes so far from their light, I shook;
And he told me the story of a creature who lost his way in a forest too deep.
And he told me,

"There once was a child who laughed and played,
and with his friends he built their small castle, their homely empire;
and their happiness soared through their sky so low,
they painted the stars every night, and so,
they saw not what lay beyond their ecstasy spires;
they saw not what God had made.

But the child wished to see beyond their canvas,
past the jubilant colours and bold strokes that carved their skies,
and so he left one day and promised to return."

"But he never did?" said I, and the king seethed and sighed;
I held my tongue forthwith.

"Past the kaleidoscope of their innocence did he want to see,
and so one day, he left their cascading monolith.
And his friends knew not of his indecision, his lies,
of what their kingdom would soon be;
a cold, unfamiliar carcass.

But the child grew old and the road dark,
and he saw many things as he traversed the land:
He saw the nature of God, of people and existence;
He saw hypocrisy in love, honesty in deviance,
and simple truth in destruction.
He saw the edge of infinity, and looked back and cried,
'We are too small, and I am too far gone; do not look further, I beseech you,
If I cry out in isolation, do not take my hand!'"

"Surely his time away had not made their difference so stark?"

"Irrelevant," said the king, "for he believed it did, and doubt upon oneself leaves the deepest mark."

"And so the child, terrified to face his beloved sky,
built a monument to his arrogance, his doubt and fear;
a monolithic dagger planted deeper than he knew,
a dark tower which, under his care,
rotted away with him inside.
An exile he knew to be singularly true;
with dormant wings, never again did he fly."

The king turned to face the smouldering truth in front of me. "He burned them both; the dagger and his home, and watched it all fall."

He then looked at me and grinned. "With the limitless cliff of death, why bother choosing between worlds, after all?"

And so I left the king in all the terror his desperation had caused;

I walked away into the abyss, far away from that man and his burning empire,

possibly more confused than he was.

Rettrahk Dec 2013

A Flower in Cracked Cement

Amongst the dying, amongst the rage,
within the thousand souls and a thousand more,
twisting in their own remorse,
I found so heavenly a voice, so powerfully calm,
not once, not twice, but again, again and again did I fall.
I fell for that voice, that voice, who?

Was it a lone soldier, finding solace in the aftermath?
Was it a villain, freed from the confines of a life long lost at the hands of rage, insanity?
Was it the common man who stayed untouched, or was it one who found dreams beyond wonder?
Was it a mother's lullaby, a sister's requiem, a daughter's salute?

Lying in blood, in smoke and scream, it swept up each fleck of horror,
carrying, in gentle hands, perhaps, every sin and every lie, obligation and grief,
to the pinnacle of truth seen just beyond the clouds;
lying there, I'd never felt smaller.
There it was, the mountain of judgement, a soldier for truth,
and the voice delivered to it every excruciating injustice and the tears of the evil, of the good and the poor.
That voice, that voice! Sing again, sing forever more,
the anthem of salvation that echoed through the burning woods.
And so I ask,

why do you sing? Who is it that hears you?
You sing for your lover, your mentor, your child?
Do you sing for every warrior lost to time's manipulation?
Do you sing for every survivor, galvanised, everlasting, immortal?
Do you sing for the gods and their reckless plans?
Or perhaps, for yourself? O Voice, god, merciful god,
the melody you shower upon these bloodied lands,
knows not how undeserving we are to hear its splendour.

I asked who you were, but now, I only ask,
that you walk past our corpses and say not a word.
But merely sing, sing as you have,
and never be weak to slip in our blood.
But to find your way out of this horror, this world of the doomed,
and find a dream long forgotten:

The dream of a soldier's unconditional smile,
the dream of a mother's undying pride;
The dream of two lovers, and their unison unhindered,
The dream of every villain to turn back the waves of time.
The dream of every fighter, for justice or survival, to find peace among the peaceful,
The dream of every sister who marched by the bodies, longing for his blissful return from our land.
The dream of every daughter who arose amongst the fallen, to live free and not fight;
And the dream of the common man, to soar victorious, to see sights unknown, to suffer and rise, to end and begin.

And as you walk, I see, you are not far.
Or perhaps, what I see,
Perhaps it's a dream.
O Voice, god, merciful god,
Sing.

Rettrahk Dec 2013

Out of Town

They told me lines were flat.
The good hung heads, the others did too.
They told me you left from the struggler's bed,
and then you left it at that.

Hearin' the dances,
harmonica's stances,
the flourishes you cast on us all,
but there'll be tomorrow,
no cause for no sorrow,
time moves on, taking names of those who fall.

And so I heard, that you left,
and I heard they they wept,
and I heard everybody screaming high into the gardens,
and I heard that I must weep,
everybody in the bleak,
but I see you made it fine on your own,
Don't need that obligatory depression,
Your departure, peace and sound,
I've grown out of that obsession,
And so I've heard you're out of town.

Rettrahk Nov 2013

Once Again, Again

It was nothing. The void.
And I was, in all senses,
but no more.
Nothing was indeed, but then was it so?
If nothing was, then I was not. Not a void, no;
an ocean, untouchable, tangible, irreplacable.
And I was there, akin to the mass,
should the mass be so;
should the nothing be.

But if not?

If nothing could not be,
then I existed not merely a part;
But a world.
A world suspended; cryogenic existence.
But the nothing couldn't be,
so it must be mine.
If nothing was not,
was it not me?

And the specks of light flurried,

and the winds grew fresh with melody,

And the darkness saw in itself a salvation,

and a universe

began.

Rettrahk Oct 2013

What I Fear

Come and tell, what do you fear?
The end is indecisive, trapped between now and coming;
But let's see it close, it leers at you, we want to hear.
What do you fear?

A man's rise, we see; the incineration of stagnant fears,
the will to understand what was once to hate.
A long path remains, but we see a man's rise, near.
So what do you fear?

Do you despise the bonds that keep you strong,
do you loathe the lives you must forgive?
Do you feel alone amongst the lovers, who show you how to live?
Can you speak, fool, can you speak your mind?
Do the shadows of time deceive you, as they have done every time?
Do you dread the betrayals following to your pyre?
Tell us, why do you cower?

Do you deserve the warmth, the conditional unconditional?
Do you feel pity for those who see not your visage beneath the mask?
Your treachery in friendship,
Your misogyny in love,
Your refusal to see answers to the turmoils and turbulence, to accept, to ask?

Do you fear that you'll hurt them,
and they won't understand?
Do you fear your solitude falling through like sand?
They see your isolation, they pity, they help;
they know not the darkness you call home yourself.
You love them, you cherish, you help, and you leave;
you know not of the ashes smouldering in your wake.
The scars dealt by your denials, too deep to conceive.
The hands that remain, you stay too weak to take;
The ones you choose to spurn - aye, yet another mistake.
You embrace the destiny of a lonely fire, with no warm breath to keep you near;
You've fought to love the isolation, so tell us,
Is this what you fear?

Rettrahk Aug 2013

Watching Hell in Peace

I escaped.
I escaped my home. I don't even remember
if I ever called it my own.
I wasn't a victim; I was not oppressed.
My life was average, normal, unnoticed, blessed.
Of course there were spines. Creatures, vile.
But who doesn't deal with that? I did for a while.

Yet, I escaped. Without knowing why back then.
But now that I'm here, I'm beginning to see.
My home was a hellfire, and I was protected,
oblivious to the suffering and screams around me.
The reach of evolution has brought us close,
and perhaps a bit too close for my taste.
For here, in the comfort of peace and security,
I'm seeing what I might have had to face.

My home was burning.
Prisoners of the corrupt, the greedy, the sickest bowels of humanity,
stared at me through their bars with eyes that demanded
justification for my freedom.
Or perhaps they merely stared;
perhaps the hellfire is stronger within my heart, tearing my conscience to pieces,
at the thought that I was randomly selected
to leave the pit, and enter the kingdom.

What gives me the right? I asked.
So did they. I could hear them scream.
I was a citizen of my home, cursed to suffer within it every day.
This life - this happiness - it wasn't even a dream.
My friends toiled and burned and fought,
with me watching from a distance, indifferent and confused.
I don't know if they ever asked me for their loss,
but I know I can never provide,
what they have been refused.

My home is filled with monsters,
creatures that ruin lives for a living.
From here, it's all clear: the sickening acts are too dark to see.
Innocent souls assimilated, destroyed, lost and grieving;
I couldn't imagine what it would have done to me.

But I escaped. I was protected well.
I was one of the lucky few who had no stories to tell.
My hands are soft still, my psyche unharmed.
I am safe, sound and secure; no reason to be alarmed.

So why does it burn? Why do I cry?
Because it's my own home? Because that's where I'm supposed to die?
Is this patriotism, or sympathy? Or is it just plain confusion?
I am lost in my own fortune, my faltering delusion.

My home is beautiful.
Its colours outshine the brightest of any other.
Its life, laughter and arbitrary adventure are found nowhere else in this world.
It tastes wonderful. Could I stay there forever?
No one could not. The living quarters are too cold.

And so I escaped.
I watched millions of my people fall below as I rose to the skies,
left to be thrown in the construct of psychological torture
and die or live a slave.
I wished I could bring some of them with me. But then I realised,
the real world is not so fulfilling.
Not a dream.
Not so brave.

I escaped because I was given the chance. I was guided without hindrance.
Guided away from the colours, lights, laughter and tears,
from the blood-curling screams and turbulent fears.

Today, here, at this moment in time,
I know I can never go back.
My home is a sin of humanity,
in itself, a crime.
I couldn't care less what it lacked.

I cannot love my roots,
I cannot state my blood with pride.
All I can do is watch the place burn,
as I allow my own flames to subside.

I will never make the mistake of calling it my own.
For that day, I escaped.
I escaped from my home.

— The End —