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Kevyn Estrela Poem
This violin is so small but carries like the heaviest of weights,
these cascades of shapes and shades are typically a waste,
and their traces are replaced by the weight the levies take,
you brace for the impact but you usually faint.
What once felt so safe, is erased into the waves.
What you thought was a phase, seems to be a perpetual hurricane.
engulfing your terrain every few years and nothing remains.
If it's still somehow alive, it's always still set ablaze
and the veins always eventually just simply drain.
A brand new template to sit and paint
but the picture always looks the same, nothing is to change;
looking like the same photograph you just simply traced,
as you try to deviate from the things you hate, all you know relates.
This violin plays, but the beautiful sound comes out muted and plagued
cracked and depraved, losing itself to its masquerade.
A new chapter here to navigate, where the old may dissipate
but the sounds will echo and resonate, with each new note that is played,
into a melody of which he has heard for over a decade.
A subtle change but the result is always very much the same
This violin has never been properly tuned, so it continually gets used
knocked around and bruised, so its players seem to always be excused,
if not confused, at this muse that they just so happen to always choose.
From honeymoons to the hope that it will hopefully improve
and when it's time to finally move, the violin seems to always be the one to lose.
Passed down for a penny less, a brand new second hand
snatched up by the next poor soul looking for a perfect match,
to give the instrument the love that it lacked.
A brand new second chance, that always seems to collapse and overlap,
scrap that is just re wrapped, doomed to be damned,
part of the story but never part of the plan;
playing the noises that will eventually tip the avalanche.
This violin is a beautiful artifact, perpetually attacked but it always attracts
it rarely snaps, it just adapts to the blasts.
Its sound echos in laughs but this violin never forgets.
Copyright © Kevyn Estrela | Year Posted 2015
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Details |
Kevyn Estrela Poem
I can't seem to hear the dial on this broken telephone,
staring back at the brick walls in this greco home,
The tone becomes ominous the further i progress,
the depths of a broken soul from all those experiences before,
another memory comes back to haunt me;
poof.. the rest is history...
Borrowing ideas from the time keeper, the noble teacher.
Believe in nothing you see, since all of it is littered with evil,
and these directions for the roads paved with good intentions
are always littered with pollution, extensions of the most infectious.
Those who've flirted with indiscretions, at the folly of their transgressions,
and these are the matters of the heart, where the mind looses its self to the art.
When the moon is full at the start, just to curve into darkness at the peak of its ark
as each grain of sand in the hour glass, slowly collapses to the bottom filling the cracks,
clocking the time that it takes each one of us to build up our masks.
These moments, they are time lapses, emotional relapses,
lessons of attachments flirting with the passive nature of all the battles.
These hourglasses, who knew they could be so disastrous,
quietly firing of all these mental images of cannons;
burning down the hiding spot in your castle, these are just examples.
so run to the mountains, or row through those channels, take those chances,
whatever happens, know it eventually does not matter, we all become ashes;
though for now, we are all our own captains.
These matters of the heart, grow more fond the further you go.
One second your in heaven, the next your in shambles, tangled in madness
sadness for the things that might be, eventually driving you back into that burned down castle.
Back to taking the same chances, not everything that trickles rattles.
Confusing passion with malice, forgetting we're all atoms on a much larger canvas.
This sound is deafening, I picked up to begin dialing, but was reminded then
the adrenaline of this gentlemen is much more effective when using a pen.
conveying the lessons to the future Kevyn.
So for now i stare at this florescent hue, writing to find out what to do?
Wanderlust in a garden of mistrust, or trust in the human process?
Hold a grudge, or wait for the flood of blood to just halt to a stop?
This glass house was built around too many rocks, but can be broken down with just a cough.
What a paradox.
Copyright © Kevyn Estrela | Year Posted 2015
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Details |
Kevyn Estrela Poem
These temples are only vessels, temporary rentals,
borrowed seconds, as precious as they are defenseless.
Gliding on these waters with no direction
leaving trails that eventually evaporate to the heavens.
Look down at the water, just appreciate the reflection
momentary possessions but we could never possess them.
Hold onto the memory but never forget the lesson.
We're all legends because we're all individual sketches;
they'll go tired to see our faces but we're all just merely projections,
lit up by this moon causing our grainy reflections.
If it's not the poison than time itself will ages us,
and it may not be fair but isn't it all just chaos?
beautiful light from the stardust, as it defines our universe?
Impending collisions that happen at random?
Creating the most beautiful sights to ever have happened?
One in infinity, regardless of its vicinity or proximity,
our humility is what travels through space and time vividly.
And nothing on these maps can explain the trajectory,
since alive or in memory, we continue to exist forever as energy...
Copyright © Kevyn Estrela | Year Posted 2015
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