For things of beauty
Constantly am I searching,
Despite the bleakness.
Black-blue paint bleeds from within the cracks of crumbling cement walls,
Crushed skeletons infused within limestone erode,
exposing nameless sorrow hidden behind faceless grains of gypsum,
while a forgotten galaxy's celestial ceiling peers through a decaying thatched roof.
Misguided souls reach out into night's void,
screeching repeated sins into feverish gusts of wind,
tethered to each rusting rebar that's barely holding what was once their haven together,
unable to let go, doomed to relive past grievances.
Weathered spiral staircases lead towards nowhere.
Bleakness suffocates while hope is snuffed out,
like the wick of bitter candles drowning in their own wax.
Spinning surrealistic scenes melt into intangible realities,
each soul writhing in agony, trying to break free of abject cycles,
yet punishment clings like the smell of burnt tobacco,
unable to separate the scent from the fibres of existence.
Disembodied voices find no reprieve,
only more excruciation
at the hands of cruel judgement.
1.
Raucous winds sweep pristine waves
against gods' sepulchral canvas as
stagnant, sharp wings' frames rose from malnourished hearts;
ends of elongated crosses marked beginnings
of rotten, venomous roots plugged into dead matter.
2.
Hollowed caverns invaded by calloused fingers
coaxed bitter nectar and pellucid beads:
thus, gashed, aqueous sacs polluted by darkening crimson
rolled down the silken passage.
With each bite, a story is devoured as
monotonous beats of the gnawed linger in the air,
a saccharine image of carnage and raven barbs.
3.
Rough trunks and polished branches - that reached for the fleating dark
blended into mirrored snowy and sickening magenta -
tell stories of woven arrows of bleakness and despair,
a myriad of similar, blurring threads plunging:
upon the lost and benevolent,
upon the putrid and vice,
nonchalantly.
4.
Yearning, bony grip interrupted hasty steps;
despite their current state,
these wane pits easily found mine
(like never before)
their intimate, lost vigor fueling my disdain as
superficial longing clashed with a guarded soul
finally certain of similarities and your self-induced downfall.
Bleakness
A story of an
Outward blanket
Of whiteness and cold..
Overwhelming perhaps..
Reflections arise of the
Amazing sudden change..
In the story may also arise
A sense of no-time
A sense of no-changing:
No-changing seeming as
Bleakness..
And peace...
November
Bleakness..
The fullness and
Warmth of
The earlier season
Seemingly passing..
An annual story
Recycled with
The question of
Permanence..
Finding..perhaps
The paradox of
Life as
Brilliant
Fullness and
Bleakness...
a bus stop
with a shelter
remote and
standing tall
surrounded by
bleak countryside
where no one
lives at all.
does anyone
get off here?
just who
the heck gets on?
where does the bus
that stops here go
and where does it
come from?
I'm reaching, I'm reaching
There's nobody there
I'm hurting so badly
And nobody cares
Why am I so worthless
Strung out in the air
Dangling by a rope
For there is no hope
Don't try and convince me
That it is alright
Nothing you can say
Could make it alright
The pain and the suffering
Are too much to take
In a hard and cold world
Where everything's fake
All I see is empty
When beauty is dead
I would rather be surrounded
By nothing instead
Don't try and force lies
Inside of my head
There is too much filth
Already there
Welcome to my bleakness
You think it's a joke
I would burn my everything
Engulf it in smoke
Without giving one thought
That is my choice
I guess I'll die a memory
That never had a voice.
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