He is a swan and he sits on a black lake trying desperately to save his feathers from soiling.
They all sit around him bobbing their heads in the filth and minding not one bit.
And as time goes by he knows his feathers have begun to dull
And he tries to fly away from it all
But they refuse to let him, he cannot fly, he is but a swan they tell him with pleasure
And he keeps getting filthier as they help paint each feather
And the lake begins to look more like a prison
And he watches his reflection become what he hates
He forgets about that before that has driven him
And he waits and he waits and he waits and he waits
For something he knows will never come
Help from elsewhere so he won’t have to try
Help from elsewhere to make it easy to fly
This help does not come as it was never out there
There’s no help for a swan that’s full of despair
Only he can turn his prison of hate, a lake full of muck, into a better landscape
The day will come when the swan flies away
And the others will watch and they’ll wonder and gasp
Because they thought swans were only swans, they know this from swans that lived in the past
And as this swan flies, sure his feathers are dull, he can barely flap, and his wings are quite small
But now he can see every lake all around
For there are many that wait for him to be found.
The Sun Shines into my Dark Chambers Bright
Beaming through the windowpane warm and cheer;
The ancient heap of books revealed by light
And the grandfather clock is all I hear.
The lovely scenes of nature come to view
As I draw near the casement and do stare;
All 'round the Winter landscape changes hue
Even though the trees look so dead and bare.
Pristine the crystallised frost on the ground
Seems beautiful splashed in the sunshine's ray.
O breathe the sharp cold air from yonder mound
And let this lovely sight fill up your day.
So soon the golden light will pass and fade
Except all the memories you have made!
This body’s falling apart.
My bones are separating at the joints, pressing into my flesh, coming through.
My ribcage is cracking open sending splintering shards through my veins,
revealing a heart beating out of time.
sending my blood racing through my body, down to my toes, up to my head.
letting its beats reverberate through my hollow abdomen.
My eyes float in my skull
scanning, trying to find something to focus on, sending blank images back to my brain.
My lungs are dragging air down into them,
forcing it back up.
They expand and shrink,
compress and release.
I've forgotten the sound of my voice,
surprised as it stumbles out over the arid landscape of my tongue;
it is weak and damaged from disuse.
The space in between my bones is filled with what could have been—the fragmented fantasies desperately pieced together.
My muscles are dry, tight, and useless.
I am full of could have beens.
Brimming with retrospect.
My skin is stretched tight,
holding back every memory of every moment wasted—forgotten only to be remembered and regretted. My limbs are too heavy for me to support.
I am dragged down by them.
I am made immobile.
I am the sum of all these parts,
and it is not enough.