The Remains

A poem


Stars sparkle and glimmer

with bright luminosity.

Whilst synthetic lights strike,

smeared with human ferocity.

The lure of the lavish

defeats the unacceptable other.

But in my heart, unflinching,

remains the peace of humble big brother.

Hustle and craze steal from my soul –

a little more everyday,

as innocent longing fades ever further away.

I see just how you flirt, tempt and seduce.

But no, not for me,

I’m life’s eternal recluse.

I miss the sound

of nothing…

but the river’s hushed little trickle.

Deny me unrelenting machines,

so harsh and so fickle.

Noises are deafening,

it’s silence I seek.

Steal me away from this world,

so cold and so bleak.

Trapped here,

it’s solace I hope for.

Less is the dream,

without doubt never more.

I dream of rain tapping

in soft, rhythmic drips;

like kisses poured from Mother Nature’s lips.

For we are but a speck, at the mercy of Her will.

Nourishment as easy as Her choice to kill.

The beauty She gives us,

for nothing in return.

But respect — and our mistakes –

make sure that we learn.

Yet we maintain the torment,

the fire and fury.

Playing criminal and executioner

to the judge and the jury.

Red lights all but blind me,

the blood is eternal.

The flood of the pain,

creates an ocean infernal.

Building bigger, bolder,

and without a thought of remorse.

Taking every part of our Mother

with extravagant force.

Unknown to this place or even myself,

the noose ’round my neck grows increasingly taut.

They don’t see me — nor I them.

Humanity is nameless; faceless;

condemned.

The eyes stare through me,

devoid of my soul.

Like I’m just part of the surplus,

here to dig my own hole.

But we press on and survive,

for the goal that we strive;

fleeting moments that add up

to being alive.

From one place we go,

then quickly the next.

But the haven for me

sails far from this wreck.

So how much time truly remains?

To clean the stench,

the poison,

and all of the stains?

Is it innocence or guilt

for the charge of a scourge?

Is the song justified

when all you sing is a dirge?

And who am I but just another to blame?

For although I yearn,

cry out and complain.

Here in the heart of the grave,

I simply remain.