Who are you? I will probably never know.
Your words are decorating my bending soul.
In silent mornings when I drink my aromatic coffee
Reality disappears, and hypnosis unfolds.
Who are you? The longing that knows my heartache,
Words that I used to believe so easily?
A mute Self, between much white and much black,
Looking constantly for himself in the gloomy parade?
Who are you? You are the world's greatest discovery
Who learnes all about the soul's immortality?
Who sees ice and fire in two distinct colours
And silence speaks to you in tremendous words?
Who are you? A soul with congestion of lava
Who can erupt anytime, leaving behind just waste?
Or a heart pulsing, passing through conversion
And hides his feelings through lyrics and prose?
Who are you? Are you heaven's demonic angel
Who lives and has the courage to shout in the silence,
Who often plays serenades through written poems,
Through mute words, non-words with the gates closed?
Who are you? The one who thinks white will turn gray?
The one who hopes one day black can become white?
Try to see in the fog more colours of your life,
Don't care about time, dual space or duration.
Life everlasting is not a life at all
Life with no end is more like death lasting infinitely.
The man who seeks eternal life is wrong.
He has many names, but only one describes him best.
His quest has left him hopeless homeless and poor.
He almost had it all, but wanted more...
The man with everlasting life no longer has any purpose, no soul.
His endeavor left him to only one thing,
And a never ending death.
Immortality: built to last, like the Roman Coliseum.
A first century monument to humanity’s achievements,
to Nero, to the strength of linen clad Romans,
with travertine arches that withstood fires and earthquakes.
Mortality: bones and blood, like Nero himself.
and those who followed him until there were none.
Our breaths follow the rhythm of our internal clocks,
ticking down the hours until we fall into cold dust.
Immortality: tastes like sermon promises of Heaven;
shines like morning light through cathedral stained-glass,
mesmerizing and tantalizing, hope that our breaths
will stick to the world like black ink on scritta paper.
Mortality: tastes like dried leaves and scattered roadkill;
shines like morning light through hospital windows,
reminding and tormenting, months and months of hospice.
Our bones are not travertine, our blood is not Holy water.
Let us share
an incantation of the old world
Let us unfurl words like a string of pearls
torn from ocean deep - I battled Krakens
to bring you these words – let me wreathe
the drowning seed of ancient demons
in a modern tale of high rise jewellery
You can wear me at your leisure
for I am a book of poetry - open in your hands
caress my pages - I offer ages of wisdom in sand
strung sorrowful about a stony neck
can you see the mystery of that cloud
striated by the mountains tip carved
deep into the sky in defiance of the wind
unbowed by time yet so vulnerable
to lion and tiger, to the hermit and his tearful rain
did you know that every beach was once a mountain?
so every ocean floor kissed the sky in its youth
let us built these fragments into clamshells
string them on pearlescent pages turned
by curious eyes and ponder how time
makes a mystery or a monster of us all
Let us share
this incantation of the old world
for in words
we can live forever
midnight every day
I lie in bed haunted by my own thoughts
and a question echoes through my bones
“can you really do it?”
almost two decades of the same thing
this question that bears down on me
is what I do enough?
is all of this exhaustion enough to prove something?
oftentimes I let myself be lost
between the lines and the colors and the textures
tangled in the words the world has bestowed upon me
trapped in the frames of what I display to the world
but with every piece I showcase
a part of me is eternally in each one
and the more I give to this earth
the less I have to myself
sometimes I let myself collapse into nothingness
breaking myself beyond repair
trying to find weakness and striking there
just to pour more into the art that I struggle to create
is there really anything good that will come out of this?
is using every ounce of my heart and soul worth every single day?
but if there is anything this cruel world has taught me
it is that I do not just give up on what I love
and what I love might be the death of me
and yet it is the immortality that will carry me on
it is the beauty that I am willing to leave behind
There probably IS a “God”:
Some supreme power and intellect
Who rules the Realms.
Define your God, if you will.
There may be many gods around
Throughout the vastness of the universe
For us to pray to too.
Did God Create our Universe?
But what do I care?
All I want to know
Is what’s in it for me?
Will I get but a pittance
Of a few decades of Life?
Or will I live on in some afterlife,
Reincarnation or whatever?
This may sound selfish
But as I say,
I don’t care.
I resent the certainty of Death,
With every fibre of my soul.
Atheists give me no comfort here:
Only Religion gives some Hope,
Despite our history of “Holy Wars”.
So what can I Believe in now?
What Faith can sooth my soul?
None of us gets paroled
From the prison cells we lock ourselves into.
So that we all can fit together inside
These jigsaw lives that we lead .
Which of course, eventually all blow apart.
We are merely the fragments waiting to be reassembled.
Every moment of thought is but a small drop in time.
Each piece fits the next piece.
Although we may try to avoid,
The murmurs of our own thoughts.
It is our hearts that yawn and awaken slowly
From their long winter night’s sleep.
You and I are mere mortals,
Who dreamt of a life without end.
We are the ones who make up immortality.
For the sake of seeking sweet comforts and sad joys.
This is the story we tell ourselves
Whilst slumping back to our cells.
The heavens mourned
in my stead love.
They railed and rent
in the deep knell of the thunder,
and the flashing light of the lightning
as it struck in all its fiery promise.
The gods themselves
wept my tears, my love.
Rivers upon rivers
from those fickle immortals,
for where they are,
they were moved.
Because I mourned you
I mourned you.
I mourned you,
But I was too far
from my eyes to weep.
Cut off from my arms
that I could not tear my
Closed off from my throat
so the world would never
hear the banshee in my wail.
For as my body mourned,
My soul sought you.
It reached out ,
to Hades Realms
if that was where you went.
why would you leave us here?
this body of mine and
So I could not weep
and I could not wail.
And so the heavens,
they mourned for me.