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"souli" poems
I see the shadows, they take me awayinto a place so dark.I see your hand, a hand so coldI know I'm about to die.You see me cry; you feel nothingYou are what you are.The hand of death, the darkened AngelThe one that we all fear.There are no tears, from you hollow eyesFor you have a job to doI cannot fight, for I am trappedPlease get me out of here!I touch your hand, a hand so coldit feels just like a knife.Piercing me, into my soulI see your glowing eyes.You take me down, into this placea place so very cold.Without a word, you let me goand now I'm all alone. I saw your soul, a soul so coldYou are what you areYou are the reaper, the death AngelWhom I only met once.
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Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 10:46 AM UTC
matthew
Hand so cold
I see the shadows, they take me awayinto a place so dark.I see your hand, a hand so coldI know I'm about to die.You see me cry; you feel nothingYou are what you are.The hand of death, the darkened AngelThe one that we all fear.There are no tears, from you hollow eyesFor you have a job to doI cannot fight, for I am trappedPlease get me out of here!I touch your hand, a hand so coldit feels just like a knife.Piercing me, into my soulI see your glowing eyes.You take me down, into this placea place so very cold.Without a word, you let me goand now I'm all alone. I saw your soul, a soul so coldYou are what you areYou are the reaper, the death AngelWhom I only met once.
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1
I know that our efforts all come to nothing. Analyze life, tear its trappings off, lay it bare with thought, with logic, with philosophy, and its emptiness is revealed as a bottomless pit; its nothingness frankly confesses to nothingness, and Despair comes to perch in the soulI know the end of us all is nothing, I know that at the end of Time, the reward of our toil will be nothing — and again nothing. I know that all our handiwork and all our ideas will be destroyed. I know that not even ash will be left from the fires that consume us. I know that our ideals, even those we achieve, will vanish in the eternal darkness of oblivion and final non-being. There is no hope, none, in my heart. I know, No promise, none, can I make to myself and to others. No recompense can I expect for my labors. No fruit will be born of my thoughts. I know the time — eternal seducer of all men, eternal cause of all effects — offers me nothing but the blank prospect of annihilation. So, my dignity is broken and weak, in recognition of my impending defeat. The man who is alone, who stands on his own feet, who is stripped bare, who asks for nothing and wants nothing, who has reached the apex of disinterested­ness not through blind renunciation but through ex­cess of clear vision, turns to the world which stretches out before him as a burned prairie, as a devastated city — a world in which no churches, asylums, refuges, ideals, are left — and says: «Though you promise me nothing I am still with you, I am still an atom of your energies, my work is part of your work; I am your companion and your mirror as you march on your merciless way. But I owe nothing to any one. I would be responsible to freedom alone.
0
Feb 15, 2024
Feb 15, 2024 at 8:39 AM UTC
alexis-karpouzos
AT THE END OF TIME - ALEXIS KARPOUZOS
I know that our efforts all come to nothing. Analyze life, tear its trappings off, lay it bare with thought, with logic, with philosophy, and its emptiness is revealed as a bottomless pit; its nothingness frankly confesses to nothingness, and Despair comes to perch in the soulI know the end of us all is nothing, I know that at the end of Time, the reward of our toil will be nothing — and again nothing. I know that all our handiwork and all our ideas will be destroyed. I know that not even ash will be left from the fires that consume us. I know that our ideals, even those we achieve, will vanish in the eternal darkness of oblivion and final non-being. There is no hope, none, in my heart. I know, No promise, none, can I make to myself and to others. No recompense can I expect for my labors. No fruit will be born of my thoughts. I know the time — eternal seducer of all men, eternal cause of all effects — offers me nothing but the blank prospect of annihilation. So, my dignity is broken and weak, in recognition of my impending defeat. The man who is alone, who stands on his own feet, who is stripped bare, who asks for nothing and wants nothing, who has reached the apex of disinterested­ness not through blind renunciation but through ex­cess of clear vision, turns to the world which stretches out before him as a burned prairie, as a devastated city — a world in which no churches, asylums, refuges, ideals, are left — and says: «Though you promise me nothing I am still with you, I am still an atom of your energies, my work is part of your work; I am your companion and your mirror as you march on your merciless way. But I owe nothing to any one. I would be responsible to freedom alone.
Continue reading...
2