"abstraction" poems
Yes, that is an abstraction of the landscape.
Yes, you have achieved some creative control.
Showcase your efforts! Open their minds!
Tear the ************* roof off!
Little God-man runnin' the cycles
To each his own script
His own prescription
Little God-man running the show
Master of Ceremonies
The human bridge
You must throw back each perch
and wait for the fattening;
You'll need that for the next act.....
Keep your strength up.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
i step outside, the sky above gray as slate
petrichor seeping up through the grass,
engulfing my state of mind as i inhale
and guiding me into a place of hushed abstraction.
-l.s.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 10:49 AM UTC
walking out of the liquor store
wine bottles double ******
asphalt concrete curb stone
the great expanse of the universe
the mundane
welded water tight
that Escher print
of ribboned minds
personal accounting
money as abstraction
automobile documents
layers of bureaus
the great and powerful
realm of ideas
shared fallen history
the strike of the pen
ideals ethics
the avoidance of sin
cold is coming
warmth is rare
plug into existential wetness
yet suffer banality
Friday, November 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
It's mortifying...
The dilemma, the time lapse, the wait, the clock.
The abstract that I so blatantly describe in my other writings.
Time cannot be paused, stopped...
The abstraction is so formulated into one diverse piece, the creation of such is appealing, yet reformative.
Inconsequential, to the matter of science, myth, philosophy, conduct, and everything that exists beyond our mind.
I hold onto this creation, because the conclusion of the matter holds many intellectual debates that cannot be won or answered.
It is forbidden, it's lost.
The question of right and wrong holds many definitions that are inexplicable to the concept of reality itself, when the utter illusion holds the introspection that philosophers like myself, cannot give a precise answer to.
Time will let us be.
It's a quiet storm, and I've never felt like this before.
Sometimes I think, you're just too good for me.
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
Nobody knows the
the darker corners
of my decrepit soul,
a stale and stinky
nasty shrinking
***** of abstraction,
that is less than
a fraction
of nothingness,
a shadowy space
where people cringe
and strangers displace
their rage
till tension and resentment
fill this smelly place.
Nobody knows
that my heart
does not grow
but disposes
of the red roses,
dripping paint
of crimson pain,
beatings
taken in exchange
for struggles
and anguish,
pumping out plump
plumes of poetry
and prose
to express the truth,
that nobody knows.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 11:48 AM UTC
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.
Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.
Visage and hair, her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.
Transcending form, parenthetically
(Merely) the decorative,
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.
Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.
Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.
Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.
©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
day long meaningless
the monday machine rolls
i like the way the sun is
and it’s cold out and it’s raining
something assails the daybreak
fluttering in the chutes
abstraction in the boring monotony
wispy, hazy and ambivalent
by you, wondering what you’ll do next
while i wait for the mystery
to open up in the swirled world
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 10:58 PM UTC
(Holding fire and water together)
I don't know why the rain keeps writing the
name of Nigeria on the ground in every corner.
I don't know why we are this broken and
tortured like the fragments of the dust.
I don't know why the Dapchi girls returned yesterday while their chikbok friends are
still in captive.
I don't know why every street in Nigeria is
known with an imprint of good leaders.
I don't know why we cry yet point accusation. fingers back to ourselves, who is fooling who?
I don't know why the sun cry here with a
closed lips.
I don't know why we keep writing love stories
while our brothers and sisters perish in shame!
I don't just know why but I think you should know.
Are you not the one that collected a cup of rice, clean notes and Abrahamic lie from them?
I won't speak ill of this land again, I won't!
I won't judge any one, no, I won't for the
sake of my unborn children.
No, I won't for the sake of what happened to Dele Giwa and Saro Wiwa.
We poets are abnormal psychologically.
We paints abstraction from the abstracts creating fears that might hurt those true patriots.
My muse fell out from me yesterday night,
When my television opened to a scene of genocide.
Men on pants, women on trousers painting out the tears made for people inhabiting hell.
Their laughters and smiles were printed to be archived among themselves.
I won't speak ill of this country, no, I won't!
Because of my unborn children,
I won't!
But I will tell just one tale for them to remember
Of how monkeys carted away with our monies!
Of how Snake swallowed our currency!
Of how good our leaders are, I think you know!
I have been holding these demons in me until last night they came out horribly in fierce protest to revisit this land again.
To tell of those girls ***** under the bridge,
To ask why boys like me are named after me,
To speak against shadows of death lurking here and there.
Nigeria is grey and black, red and violent,
Retrieving this oceans of mysteries from the hidden abyss of grave corruption is the passport tabled on the pyramid top to recreate a versatile muses of a lyrics calling for a right to write our rights.
Take a walk to memory lane pass your shadow, that of your father, mother & grandmas
You will see a Nigeria in another angle trying to free herself from the grip of corruption, then, revisit her tears and struggles you will know we are the cause of our own misfortunes.!
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustrations
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
my torment is one of clouds and flowers
freckles upon sun-kissed oranges
like roses through honey
& vivid eyes like the abstraction of Renaissance pieces
oh butterfly how you make my heart melt
chocolate brownie wonders with giggles on top
your effervescence brighter than a summer's day
entrapping my purity within your oppressive interior
our silences are filled with images of my creation
a cornucopia of passion for even the loneliest of wordsmiths
I leap into our pool of nostalgia for old time's sake
only to find your words transform into serpents.
whirlwinds of emotion now whispered into the ears of another
burning adorations into scarred remains
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 8:23 PM UTC
The artist evokes his tormented psyche
Through gestural abstraction
a systematic colorfield emerges
The blurring of dreamworld and reality
All pretensions dissolve
But…
Critics still criticize
Snobs still scoff
the creative will still drink and drug themselves the death.
whichever way the wind blows
that’s where my dreams escape me
They transform to Queens of Hearts and Princesses of utter
Royal
Baroque
Beauty
Bygone
Be Gone
my heart must resist
I will not be controlled by the guild
Caravaggio kept painting until he got killed
Went insane like most artists
Couldn’t stop before he got his fill
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
Suicide is not an option
Everything has to be done with caution
Be it wrong accusation or depression
Taking your life will reduce our population
Believe me, all you need is affection
Speak to someone who'll relieve you of your oppression
Who'll give you nothing but compassion
You may need trust and care in addition
When facing life challenges and tribulation
Take not suicide for a compensation
Try to have a little comprehension
Of the afterlife using your discretion
And also have a little conversation
Involving you and your intuition
Considering suicide may be as a result of impression
Or thought in abstraction
Or even to punish a relation
No matter the condition
It doesn't worth your life as a rendition
If you do plan of taking this action
I beg you take this into consideration
And do a bit of cogitation
That suicide is not an option
Though, it's taking it toll on the nation
Leading many to quick expiration
My fella, suicide is not an option
Try to do some reconciliation
And make sure to somebody you mention
To get your mind in a good position
Or perhaps it might change your situation
And set you in a new direction
Again I say suicide is not an option
Take this into admonition
That your afterlife may as well be in inversion
That live each day with vision
Devote smile to your face a portion
Do activities in admiration and jubilation
And in you life begins a resurrection
Thereby killing the ulterior notion
And also averting a possible perdition
Because suicide is never an option.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 5:07 AM UTC
Silence. Solvent. Substituted;
subsidised
then marginalised
instituted and muted.
And, often
persecuted.
Rationanalised
by abstraction:
every minuscule
interaction dissected.
All that is left is convoluted,
misconstrued
and rejected.
The lucid bewildered.
The disillusioned bejeweled:
rooted in their state of mind.
Effortlessly self-proclaiming
restraining
and refraining
purging the imagination:
the waning of maligned mankind.
And all of his
illuminated limitations.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
it's inherent ontology, it's not even necessary to process inherited ontology; inherited ontology can be riddled and lost to abstraction like the invention of crosswords as antidote to the drilling-in of the Bible... but inherent ontology? inherent is a tautological invitation to italicise the word ontology - tautology anti synonym - the doubly stressed, point origin secured, but from two adjacent / adjective angles - well, might as well be a compound, the adjacent-adjective, when language meets math and math meets.... d'uh... or simply arithmetic, because that's how it's easily translated, arithmetic is grey people and math the rich... language the poets and grammar the farts.
a shortened critique of pure reason -
a) based on phenomena
(things most likely talked about)
and
b) based of noumenna
(things least likely talked about)....
i.e. a) and the ego implant,
and b) the god implant -
likewise the zealots on either side,
bleep bleep beep r r e r s.... and muslims...
i forgot to mention that Kant forgot
to mention the trigonometric foundations
as justifying owning a villa or whatnot,
the same foundations of having
the implant ego secured and willed
are the same parameters of the
implant god secured and thought
the point being dynamic parallelism,
mid-way between cosine and sine
rigid fluctuation tangents occur,
the ridiculous abbreviations, the p.s., and ibis.;
you're basically born with ego
or you're born with god -
there's no woof woof Pavlov chime chime in between -
ring-a-ding-ding-surprise?
there's no side-winding to create cinema -
being born with ego is explained clearly, coerced
with monetary affairs;
being born with god is explained "clearly", coerced
with murderers, lastly -
no psychological theory will box-me-in
given the lost tribalism and the usage of
the trans-valuation of the synonym of thing -
with money came slang - and all thorough evils,
with slang, synonyms, antonyms, critique of vocab.,
Arizona in the ******* Amazon -
i'm basically saying what Kant said:
god isn't uncool or whatever atheism tends to forget,
it's an implant of functioning, we can't rid it
by argument, and we certainly can't accept it
by prayer - unless we're dumb enough to do either
for worth of understanding tornadoes;
because that's were Seymour Hoffman started for me,
filming Twister.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
Muck bit her ivory nightgown, as if earth hungering
after her...the delicate collapse of a napkin,she.
Hours poured atop her head, her shaggy, silvery
mane suspended--its reluctant bounce captured
at midpoint...as a spiderweb under ultraviolet light.
Desert sands lost in contemplation, reminiscent of
her flesh--divulge her core as she sleeps in a
fetal position.
Her body spasms awkwardly...its will visibly slowed
from initial motion.
As the paralysis experienced by prey amid the astral
annals of nightmares.
She'll rise into that shine, wonder at the nightmare's
symbology...talk to her garden--whilst thinking of her
time to come.
Silkworm breached the parcel
of time, its cocooned inertia
coarsed through the opalescent
eye of God to Godhood.
Of time's ruination redeemed
in a solitary work...cupped
airless the unbridled form of
a trapezist spent itself.
Opened and closed somersaults
atripped a piece of said space...
nothingness regenerated to
move, to take step of itself.
A self-argumentative abstraction
glowed...undid its silken flag--
firmly planted in an undiscovered
region...her time come.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
One Cuil = One level of abstraction away from the reality of a situation.
Example: You ask me for a cat.
One Cuil: If you asked me for a cat and I gave you a rhino.
Two Cuil: If you asked me for a cat, but it turns out I don't really exist. In the place where you perceived me to be standing is a picture of a large cat. On it's collar are the words: "I am a large rhino."
Three Cuil: You are a cat. You begin to scream, only to realise that you are meowing. You scratch just under your ears and begin to purr.
Four Cuil: Why are we wearing dinosaur outfits? A light breezes rolls over our bodies but you only have one arm. Suddenly, the wind begins to howl and an alternative universe is created where we are dinosaurs wearing human outfits. I have cats for arms, and as you notice this you meow again.
Five Cuil: You ask for a cat; and I give you a cat. Your pull it to your chest and begin to pet it. Your nose begins to run and you wipe it on the cats tail. On the other side of the world a bank is robbed by a woman who has 7 sisters. In her wallet is a picture of you, in your human form. Your ears are pierced in this picture and they were in your human form as well, but something is different about them. The cat purrs and grabs a hold of your earring, ripping it from your ear. Milk drips out of you wound and the lady robbing the bank is arrested. Her oldest sister is climaxing while having *** with my brother. I give you a cat and it is poisonous. I am dead.
Six Cuil: You ask me for a cat. Mark Whalberg tells me he will not **** and he hands me a cat. The cat is smoking a cigarette, I develop liver cancer. I die. The wind blows on you again and the cat does not have a left rear leg. It puts its cigarette out on my eye. MGMT plays softly and you meow to the moon which is a pizza. The pizza has olives on it which displeases you. Your displeasure causes the woman to rob the bank so she can buy you Hawaiian pizza. The gravitational pull of the olives causes a flood to reach your house. You cry and your tears become lakes. The Earth is flooded. Uranus ignites suddenly, engulfing Neptune in flames. A civilization of Nicolas Cage's living there are destroyed. Obi Wan says that there has been a disturbance in the force. A cat hands you me.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 2:56 AM UTC
Sick and cyclical memories linger, how unjust it seems
In somber city streets, her father's name she screams
When the fix is late and her body sodden and shaking
Her childhood recollections waking, every joint aching
Falling on tarmac, tearing stockings and fleshy knees
Through the distant mist it's a saviour that she sees
Marvin on a white steed, motorbike and leathers
To get her straight he only requires her nethers
What difference could it make to such a worn woman
So little that her eyes glaze as he announces his comin'
And she's immediately put to work after initial transaction
All night shifts, ****** abstraction, customer satisfaction
Returning 'home' to Marvin where the earnings are counted
Giggling schoolgirl as playful stories of John's are recounted
And Marvin's insatiable perversions are compounded
****** cocktails and deviancy, her psyche confounded
The **** sleeps blissfully beside his new top girl
And through ****** daze, she examines her world
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
my date with thc,
serendipitous and sublime,
like the first time
curious george killed
the black persian *****
got me sky-hiking
in a cloud of delusion
and creativity,
climbing ladders of abstraction
for nine mystic rungs
from mundane muse,
regrettable
like drunk ***
with an octogenarian
to lucid peaks of eccentricity,
a vaunted house built by
jimi and john,
long gone,
but resurrected
this date
we split a dime
into 3 nickels
and rolled every penny
into a top-5 billboard joint
we sprayed the submarine
purple
with haze
then made the wind cry
mary
as we gazed at two
giraffes making babies
on the serengeti,
laughing hysterically
like schoolgirls watching
riding miss daisy
then the cbd kicked in
and I toodle-ooed
my two
ungratefully dead hippy
stoneheads
and crashed from
the ninth rung of
the last ladder
onto grandma's bed,
clutching the first lines of
my date with thc,
serendipitous
and
sublime...
~ P (#Pablo#hcgktbpp)
(8/12/2013)
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
I sometimes I get this feeing as though I was being forced into a meat grinder.
Urged to remove my fat only to spit out chunks of blood and bone instead.
The cracking, clicking snaps of marrow that exudes from it like wastage.
The fat engorging through the tiny weeping holes.
All I can see is the repetitive nature of damage leaking from this abstraction and I feel it in my flesh.
Crawling like tiny bugs, entrapping themselves and eroding their bodies into the hair on my skin.
Uncultivated; I have fallen into the funnel hooked up to the grinder and I feel its body churn me.
It thrusts its cold metal exterior against my lean limbs; ticking.
I try to form a response when all the while this loud heavy machine is echoing against the walls, making my voice utterly meaningless.
Like ground beef I am belched out only to be covered in a plastic film that pushes all the oxygen from it.
I am stuck in this silhouette, shaped as a slab of meat.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
Time: 1
Us: 0
Will it always be like this?
Swinging our racquets at Einstein's illusion.
Singing, singing, singing 'Stop
the World I Wanna Get Off
With You'
when nobody hears
over the relentless tick-tocks.
As
as
the clock's hands
push
push
pull us together,
apart.
Hey, you.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
Let's look at the scoreboard.
Time: 1
Us: 0
In school, they taught us perseverance.
So we keep
dancing, dancing, dancing
around
the hands of the clock.
I'm on number 3 and
you face me.
What's it like on number 9?
What's it like to be on the edge of
the next hour,
the next day,
the next big thing?
You're on number 9, I'm on number 3.
I face you, you face me.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
I face you,
you face me.
So easy for us to...
So easy for us to love, but
so easy for us to leave.
So easy to fight, to
wrap our hands
around
each other's throats
simultaneously.
So easy to embrace, so
easy to walk away
when you are the west and I am the east.
I'll ask you again:
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
Eyes flit up to the scoreboard,
even though
we don't want to look
away from each other.
Time: 1
Us: 0
The ball is in no one's court anymore.
No more back and forth,
stichomythia, repartee.
Nor round and
round
when it's all an illusion,
isn't it?
Don't look.
Don't bring it up.
Time: 1
Us: 0
The figures are getting bolder, louder
than the ticking.
Tell me, tell me, before
you move to 10
and our angles get skew,
tripping over the clock's hands,
because we forgot the steps of
our dance.
Tell me, tell me, what it's like
when you see me
all the way from number 9
while I'm on number 3.
The scoreboard's screeching
like a train ready to leave.
Time: 1
Us: 0
The audience is already beginning to clap.
They have loved us
and so have we.
We put on quite the show,
enough to rival Djokovic or Murray.
But neither of us will walk out with gold.
Not when we've lost to an abstraction
that can swallow us into
memories.
We get silver medals.
Around our necks, choking
but we clasp them tightly
so they can sparkle on our chests.
My silver beams to you,
your silver beams to me.
On and off,
a Morse code speech.
When we can't speak,
can't breathe,
that seems to suffice.
Here is a case of beautiful irony:
How did we meet?
Your eyes
saw in
my eyes
that silver gleam.
My eyes
saw in
your eyes
the very same thing.
Remember:
I face you, you face me.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
The scoreboard screams:
Time: 1
Us: 0
I bought a watch today, why
did I do that?
I'm so smart but
I'm so stupid.
I face you, you face me.
It's not an illusion, is it?
Look at me.
Is it?
Time: 1
Us: 0
We're finished.
But then how could we have ever won
when neither of us knew how to play tennis?
We look at each other
so the scoreboard can dissolve
instead of us.
Like your eyes
in my eyes
a tethering glance,
could hold us in an eternal position.
Like a single look
could sustain us
stationary.
I face you, you
start to leave.
It doesn't matter now.
Everything's spilling out
on the loudspeaker.
(And for once, you don't wish to seek this one truth.)
Time: 1
Us: 0
It will always be like this.
Time: one.
Us: love.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
Out of red concrete stands an abstraction
held out in space and in isolation.
Posit a location, Pierre
I'll be there to where you be.
But from the ground of the cafe
the distance becomes separated by unity:
point A to point B
pinpointing the heart of reality
for what was once 'to be' now stands 'not to be'.
A pre-judicative attitude always leads
from 'being' to 'non-being'.
Where is the comfort in
trying to rest
between Nothingness?
While negating in
A sleep while asleep?
Am I not self-aware through self-consciousness of
'The Existence of a Nonexistence Existing in Existence'?
How can there be Nothingness if before Nothingness
there is a Consciousness?
There is a Consciousness! From Being!
From a non-being being Being!
Thus, don't premature judge and expect the "expected"
Expect the unexpected
and save nonexistence from non-existence;
from "being" to "non-being"
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 10:09 PM UTC
Dream for me
a Savannah,
a sestina in reds
at Pandoras threshold,
clothed in bludgeons of light
and these tears are nothing
but the nightingales burden,
the words laden and livid as storm
across the mauve wasteland
unfolds, the sky in its deceit,
promises rain, delivers nothing,
in this room the light will ruin me,
the squall of glass slippers overhead,
on my knees, now
the abstraction of the body, opaque
I write in the limber whisper
of fingertips, deep villanelles
about love, restless love
on the skin of your back,
histories annotated
by gestures of supplication,
I drag fingernails across a fairytale
and out falls a wide-eyed harem,
April-blue veils trail their blood, narrowing
the flagrant staccato echo in my sternum,
A palm reader warns of conduits
and spells, the darkness
that puddles like lake water
in my mind, moths of Summer
a fragrant blue,
restless blue
notes like scorpions
scurry beneath the blankets,
strands of hair, stained sheets
this vacancy glows through the shears
I forget, how early, and still
the night falls here,
as how early it fails.....
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
Philosophical epistemology strumming adventures
Albeit, coherent mental decoding stratifications structured
Supposedly our world rests in our minds, revolving knowledge
An entwine of conceptual abstract flowing within oneself
The mind in the “I” the “I” a reality lived in my experiences
George of Leontini, a mine mind approving solipsism exploring innatism
Imaginative insights that nothing exists, the secrets secreting secrets
The knowledge behind the veils that remains un-communicated
A reverse of normality and known existences, moral disposition
Hypothesis of depersonalizations, adventures of self internalization
Justifications for what lies outside the Medulla Oblongata
Skepticism and just alternatives to western philosophy
Subjective unapproved experiences only robust in one’s mind
Descartes abstraction of inner experiences, reciprocated paradigm
Intuitively, perceived lived formulations of "Cogito Ergo Sum"
Psychological conscious undoubted individualistic thoughts
Berkley explored perspectives that physicality is an embodiment of the mind
The mind a decoding visualizer, that encompass the non-existent
An idealism marriage of ‘metaphysical’ and epistemological philosophy
The intense esoteric “dualism” verses the fiery “monism” reality
Mind boggling differentiated truths bleeding with blinking unresolvable hypothesis
The jiggered methodological, streamlining the un -logic sequential beats
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
Do you See
the cracks
in the pavement
and you are the hammer
Sometimes it hurts
to exhale
You are it
a more i'd roller-coaster
What if, you
gave life
to bring our dreams
our intuition and morphology
Becomes we
and i will replace
every me with
the druthers of you
i no longer
exist in singularity
because it's only need
is an abstraction of idioms
Heartstrings & Intangible Things
Strung out like
prayer flags
and telegrams
twelve dots and dashes
i'll forever
make it
My pleasure
to find
infinite endeavor
Me way
to say
.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
I watched through tears
--That streamed like the one out back
And the scattered clouds
--The ones that floated overhead for years
A twilit ridge inurn the sun.
It was one of those rising hills of my youth,
One my infant eyes always thought
Gave birth to the moon
Time and again.
With its innocent face smiling
That worldly crispness is lost
And the foggy past is far more defined.
Who are these forms I've lost?
They are but phantoms,
(I tell myself)
And now intangible, those memories
Acidic and dusted with sugar
Held suspended and taunting, like
Feet at the mouth of an open casket.
The cold, bitter knives of impersonal
Reunion
And rejuvenated promises
--Only now remembered, only now forgotten—
Illuminated once again
In the dark.
Passing onward and through
--Like our time together—
Exactly like wind through these **** dead branches
And this grave: winter-bare.
I remember the vivacity
How enlivened the sky, that I
Each day for granted took
And how so much smaller, in my youth,
The mountains afar looked.
But there is no home,
It died when I left.
The poison I fought
Has become the blood which pumps the heart,
Now corrupt,
Antithetical.
Nothing is more colorless, not sky,
Nor hill, nor moon,
Or ever more formless
Than what I once called home.
Now that only exists is deteriorated
A rotting house:
Four walls and a roof to keep
Hatred dry,
Windows and lamps, so
Hatred has eyes,
And all the people that
Hatred hates most.
How cozy it must be to sleep in
One’s own bed, no?
To have some stable place,
And an ounce of certainty?
As for me, that will never be
Again.
Though the house is open,
Lock, room, and all
The home is closed forever
Without a proper epitaph.
Vain death.
Vain,
Vain,
Death.
Now all I can only turn back
And flirt with shadows
Just outside my arms
Walk with images
Shifting, growling, and oh, so dark
--mere abstraction
--future so stark--
With no companion but defeat.
I can’t hug a memory,
Nor cry on recollection’s shoulder,
Nor can my mother or sibling console me,
And I cry alone.
Maturation is merely widening a distance, so
I should let them go,
Bid them adieu
Because, I can't be homesick
For a home
I can't go back to.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC