Journey

Death defies my make up,

How can I believe and not wake up.

I’m part of the wheel that’s moving too fast.

I’m hoping my life will not corrupt,

How can I hold this and not erupt.

I’m not the first and I’m not quite past

The point were all will be lost

In dangerous deeds and childhood forced

Between years too short to understand

The relevance. Fierce reprimand

Delivered for those who dwelt

In timeless bounds because they felt

The weight of their mortality

And saw all as parody.

I have sought demands where none shall seek;

Beneath withered green, white turned teak

And soft yolks hanging from barked necks.

Heaven’s keeper coming to collect

Bones and cartilage for the sake to be sure

But already known was it before;

Before tissue was formed in mother’s warm womb,

Before trees were dismembered to support this room,

Before the finest fabrics of soil bloom,

Before the revolutions of strange forms resume,

Before the night and it’s following day consume,

Before the all assuming boom,

Before there was meaning to the tomb,

Upon the arrival of the doom.

Soon, soon.

Soon shall come the day of no time

That disaster shows of no sign,

Not circumstance of the divine,

Nor a shrine of exuberance.

All but a single chance.

‘Tis all I believe.

In a chance.

I do not concede, nor receive,

In this happenstance,

That! but a chance.

And all its variables indulged in quintessence and all it seems is but a lesson for those who play upon a simple way, and those who dine upon a finer line. Pretending a scar can be reborn and I’ll show the primary, lucid dawn: A fire lit from the sky in majestic ferocity, and in desire do we see hypocrisy. The flames within the skin deny our very own sin; repulsed by the nature we manoeuvre, we dig further and further, and further. To find out hell, in which we bore, our finest gowns with which to soar to peak and, beyond, to zenith. To create epiphany, forgotten with tomorrow’s wind.

I’m not a speaker, I’m not to listen.

I was given a flute. So now I whistle

A final time for those still searching,

Those polishing and those besmirching.

Perhaps my tune has been disturbed

For they misunderstood and thus perturbed

To a stranger course and fervent

Still my sails stay deserving

Of ambition.

Though I am not the recipient of such recognition.

Rather, a fly with broken limbs and severed wings,

An expectation of less wanted things.

To see it in a bin is best,

With orange rind and wrappers I detest.

It is life in turmoil, for I seek its pain,

I am ruthless in my disdain

Of creatures other than self.

I know not of else.

“I am teacher, I know why…”

But cannot explain why all things die.

Or why death last at all, never mind indefinite

And odder still, why we have regressed in it?

Why is there time for war,

Time for rape and torture and gruesome more?

And oddest now, why do we choose such a paradigm

As for these troubles to be such a way inclined.

I ask, for I am simple and know of naught,

How all these dreams of conjecture were once bought

By men of a certain appearance, wired and heated

In favour of what is to be deleted.

I’ll devour if you ask,

Tell me it’s my task,

You must only ask.

I arrive at the beginning once upon a time

And sing the solitary rhyme.

This round in unison,

Come together and let’s begin:

I’m wide eyed and intoxicated

By dreams and new colours of which I have waited

Many years to return to se

The ecstasy in melody.

The elation in ridiculous, movements of joy,

Never felt since my body was boy.

I’ve come now to feel myself, as all,

I am directionless in essence.

‘Tis only that I have fallen

To be in my own presence.

16/10/15 23:23pm

Ludovico Einaudi Elements album

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