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#cantgetovermyproblems
“Travesty,” those orange words spilled across the highway lines Came on swathes of a stilled And perfect evening time, ‘Tween buffeting air and screaming music It seems but a step in a cyclic progression, Or the lines that commence This processional of cars That follows, to the site, trails of incense, Tears of mourn and memoirs. Towards the hills canvassed in reluctant ennui Jutting in the shadows the bleached ribs and pearly jaw lines That, at times, may have looked alive, yet now They rest static as the dead ought to be. I sense I’m getting close, the ***** surges its triumph As it does the sanctuary, My head swells with deep booming sound, The lyric of the preacher without need to expound, Too late as the ***** shan’t stop or abate As I pass through churchyard admonished “Hell, Is truth realized only too late.” Though I am soothed by that song of my youth, Lyric’d by many-a familiar cadence and tune Vestiges of naïveté play on the lips But, “Hell is truth only realized too soon.” I wait at its back and reminisce The coming great years were something to fight for With life, defend, But I now see that I spent those last seconds Waiting for them to end, Whilst prayers of hollow wind abound Escaped to show something holds on, at least Pretends, Will remain after me, aft’ I’ve settled in the ground, To be as a sunset and come back around. I feel like a sun, burning in fury, Not simply a shimmer in the vastness afar, Or the muddy face of fetid puddle Simply rippling like a star. Keep driving! Don’t cease my tiny hearse! Just now do I hear the mourners’ verse, It sounds so golden and couldn’t get worse! But the ***** has ceased, The daylight, it rots (Never mind that, I’ll charge it with haught!) And the processional laughs as they go to their plots Their verses fall too coward to brave The ice and the snow that is to come, mine fall stricken With every sense of the word ‘dumb,’ But the sun reassuring with it warmth-giving rays Will be sure to put flowers next to our graves.
0
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
jp-goss
A burial
“Travesty,” those orange words spilled across the highway lines Came on swathes of a stilled And perfect evening time, ‘Tween buffeting air and screaming music It seems but a step in a cyclic progression, Or the lines that commence This processional of cars That follows, to the site, trails of incense, Tears of mourn and memoirs. Towards the hills canvassed in reluctant ennui Jutting in the shadows the bleached ribs and pearly jaw lines That, at times, may have looked alive, yet now They rest static as the dead ought to be. I sense I’m getting close, the ***** surges its triumph As it does the sanctuary, My head swells with deep booming sound, The lyric of the preacher without need to expound, Too late as the ***** shan’t stop or abate As I pass through churchyard admonished “Hell, Is truth realized only too late.” Though I am soothed by that song of my youth, Lyric’d by many-a familiar cadence and tune Vestiges of naïveté play on the lips But, “Hell is truth only realized too soon.” I wait at its back and reminisce The coming great years were something to fight for With life, defend, But I now see that I spent those last seconds Waiting for them to end, Whilst prayers of hollow wind abound Escaped to show something holds on, at least Pretends, Will remain after me, aft’ I’ve settled in the ground, To be as a sunset and come back around. I feel like a sun, burning in fury, Not simply a shimmer in the vastness afar, Or the muddy face of fetid puddle Simply rippling like a star. Keep driving! Don’t cease my tiny hearse! Just now do I hear the mourners’ verse, It sounds so golden and couldn’t get worse! But the ***** has ceased, The daylight, it rots (Never mind that, I’ll charge it with haught!) And the processional laughs as they go to their plots Their verses fall too coward to brave The ice and the snow that is to come, mine fall stricken With every sense of the word ‘dumb,’ But the sun reassuring with it warmth-giving rays Will be sure to put flowers next to our graves.
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