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rob kistner Aug 10
(a personal contemplation on dementia)

my memories gather and squabble
like the crows at stirling castle
they pick the bones
of my recall

bones against the cruel clay
of an arid
barren mind

littered with the harsh forgotten
like the bones of the dinosaur
I'm becoming

with what letters are made of
my words crack and crumble

my thoughts
parch and wither

a sad silhouette
cut lonely
against an unforgiving skyline

fighting to remember
what the images meant

meant to me

tender visions of my past
of my life
of my home
next door to yesterday

harder and harder to remember
the degrees of separation
growing ever greater

time to time
I catch a glimpse of a lover
as she moves softly

comely as miss america
sensual as a shadowed nude

they all smolder in the fog
of my reflected past
in bright flashes

splashes of vivid color
on torn and dirty
scraps of paper
blown in the mounting winds
of my confusion

dread rising
that I will soon not remember
what it all meant to me

what they meant to me
what you meant to me
my love

a stirring fear I will forget
how a marriage
rare as ours
can last

how it did endure
and grow

finding richness
in moments of want
with the love we knew

this is not a poem
it is much more

this is a searching serenade
powerful as a double bass
sweet as a silver flute

this is a fractured tome
a cry of frustration
a tear of loss
a whispered prayer

an epitaph
to my fading map of then
of you

cherished memories

and gentle

that now falter
and dim

slowly slipping
into the cacophony
of the crows at stirling castle


rob kistner © 2018
I have been warned by my doctors in the past couple years, that I must be vigilant regarding dimentia. I have a number of things that make me a strong candidate. It frightens me when I struggle with memory, which I do more than I would like - and lately it feels more frequently. I had written about the subject in the past from an objective perspective, but I held it in a much more subjective light for this write.
I put myself in a meditative state before writing this, contemplating on what losing my memories might look and feel like. I then sat down and wrote this in a conceptual stream-of-consciousness, writing freely, not judging or overly evaluating what I was writing as I went - just writing, filled with the memories of the images that came to mind while I contemplated dimensia, and the emotions that lingered in that moment. I had a very strong vision of crows, what the significance is, I am not sure.
I did very minimal editing, then called it complete.
Here it is.
Kit Aug 4
We truly did feel the devil inside

Old castles hold a beautifully dark aura that poisons the mind

with dark energy and the need to keep the pain alive that we caused in others

Never let that energy die and never surrender to the forces that want to hold you down,

but rather make them feel a bullet in the head

cause you can beat them down and break free

And in the end tell them I  wish you hell

because looking at you simply just makes me love the way you hate me

Make them feel the bitterness in your heart
and see the chaos that is dominating your mind like a storm
Based of one of my favourite bands, Like A Storm, check them out...
Riley June Aug 1
abandoned magic castles coated in dust
broken magic wands lay scattered
centaurs have long since disappeared
dragons no longer strike fear into hearts
elves lost all glimmer and awe
fairies get drunk forgetting how to fly
gnomes just stand still dead in yards
how sad everyone begins to fade
imaginary friends have become forgotten
jesters no longer have jokes
knights have all died in battle
listen to the wind howl in abandoned homes
mythical creatures are just dead lies
no one has felt hope
old and broken dreams litter everywhere
places of joy have been left desolate
quiet cries of all those forgotten
rest in a bed of leaves
slip into blanket of slumber
travel to this forgotten land
under the light of the moon
vanish from your world to join mine
we can walk together
xenophobia infects most who visit
your eyes must stay aware
zealous hate will stalk
Paul-Dieter Jul 12
I caught a princess
From my castle above the sea.
She sat on my throne of swords
But drowned in the air I breathed.
So I took her back to the ocean,
To show the world
A queen to be,
Sitting on a throne of pearls,
Underneath the sea.
Amanda Jul 11
It's not pretty, and it's not kind.
It's the stack of laundry you've been meaning to fold,
that has now become an unyielding castle.
And depression is the impenetrable dragon guarding it against entry.

It's a feeling of happiness that drifts in and out of your life,
just long enough for you to think that you're not trapped,
even though your shackles are still tethered to an unbreakable prison.

It's seeing the dust trail gather along your treasures and your things,
knowing it won't physically go away until you do something about it,
but feeling overwhelmed by the sheer idea of sweeping it away.

This is depression.
It's not pretty, and it's not kind.
But it is me.
Sehar Bajwa Jul 10
The Rose is under the jar,
A fungus lurks within.
The Beast is corroding slowly,
No magic can help him.

Beauty is locked in prison,
The key to Happiness lost.
The castle lies forgotten,
The memories left to rot.

Yes, no magic will save him.
His destiny writ in stone.
The Beauty lies within him,
Imprisoned and Forlorn.
Inspired from Disney's Beauty and the Beast. Though it's a simple piece of work, I do believe it's quite implicit in a profound way. I hope you like it.
Solitude Man Jun 28
For the man has been changed,
dressing in a mirage and false attire
building a castle in his schizophrenic mind
for so long he guessed it was mist
his mind limboed by their words
'we are architects of the sand filled castle' they scream
they say he uses pity power,
so they tell him his pseudo-castle is bliss

For the man has been changed
the realisation is the thrust in his heart
he was right, their trust is a facade
they say he uses pity power
so they have to stay with him in the hard-times

For a time, I too thought my bed was laid,
unraveled the best wool for this bamboo sheets
all for me to realise that every utterance of love
that came from their lips
was but for them on a pressure cooker; making me the chef
though i took a journey, i started to understand they were never with me
they knock me off my perception stand
my candle light burning without light
though now they do not understand, for when they shall, standing not shall i be
for my heart has taken a bow

For a time, though i have sailed through them endlessly
and became an anaesthetic mind for their sake
for the man has been changed
though they say he uses pity power
this lego victim is the solitude man
and He's back.
Aa Harvey Jun 21
Without end

In the haunted castle where all is quiet,
There walks a man with a ghostly face.
It is forever changing, a million images;
The nightmares staring back at him in the mirror;
The memories, the dreams never spoken and the wishes never made.

Dressed from head to toe in a cloak of black,
He is a blast from the past
And he is lost to the thoughts that have never been had.

No sound to be heard on the castle grounds,
Except for the wind blowing the cries of all the lost souls.
The ghosts are outside walking from the beyond into the now.
Time has been turned upon its head; a history of bones.

The graveyard is empty, for the bodies have arisen.
This land is his home, but he is without a reason inside his prison.
He does not ask for salvation, because no redemption will be given.
He is without a desire to be loved; he is lost without feelings.
He can never leave the castle grounds,
Because at the edge there exists an invisible barrier
And no exit to be found.

A hundred years have passed on by, since the time of his death.
Some say this was his darkest time,
But they are those still with breath.
With all his might he stands against,
The tide of what was and what still is,
But still he died, still he is here and still he does not live.

Now he haunts his castle alone,
He is without a soulmate; he is without a friend.
He has no hold of his own ill-fated soul,
For he is trapped in the never seen and his life has no end.

(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Aa Harvey Jun 13

An old stone built tower stands above all on the skyline;
The curves of its body twisting spiral’s in the air.
The moon shines around its peak, which reaches up so very high.
It is surrounded by a castle keep,
That is an image of a burnt out nightmare.

The castle walls are in pieces, like its people,
Cannon fodder their game.
The drawbridge has fallen, but the iron gate still remains.
The shadows in the night speak of a desire to be the enemy within.
The voices of the fallen spit out their final endless scream’s.

The sound of war is upon the castle door.
No more escape for its inhabitants,
Apart from those who are fleeing through the century old tunnel.
The secret passage to a way away from all the savage.
The army continues to do battle, at the top of ladders and ramparts.
All have been affected by this battle’s damage.

The sorcerer of this cursed land,
Stands in the furthest, most high room,
Shooting lightning at the wall tops as the chaos reigns below,
Where all is doom
And in a final decisive action,
The sorcerer reads from his big black book;
The ground shakes, the fire falls and all enemy are shook
And thrown from their steeds in front of the castle gate.
In pieces they bleed and from the tops of the castle walls,
Those who are falling will never be saved.
They crash to the floor and become no more.
The sorcerer falls to his knees, exhausted of power,
But he has put an end to this midnight war.

No protection was given by the enemies armour.
Their swords and shields crashed loudly as they hit the ground.
The enemy is no longer the invading warrior;
They are all running in fear and their last sounds are all dying out.

As the sorcerer takes the final step down from his twisted tower,
He pushes open the thick oak wooden door.
As he walks out into the open air courtyard his face is a glower;
No living enemy can be seen, because the enemy are no more.

His men are all cheering and shouting his name,
But the sorcerer is not laughing with them, for he has a plan.
He tells them this morrow they will all fight again,
So they must all prepare to once more stand.

Some voices of discontent whisper within the ranks;
Some of them openly criticize his view.
As he creates a ball of flame that hovers above the palm of his hand,
They all realize he has been their antihero
And he could be their demise too…if he chooses to.

(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
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