a hollow shell
of tangled synapses
sparked into gradual madness
which drowns out the truths of the day
as the mind reeks of the rotten sad moments
that swirl in the rancid soup of forgotten dreams
dreams that once traced a gentle path of innocence
dreams that reached for pure love’s tender touch
dreams now paralysed but once vivaciously alive
what became of those fresh dreams and hopes
as they lie mustily on dusty bookshelves
torn into shreds by time’s fine scimitar
devoid of the touch of raw passion
when all that remains of love is
a hollow shell
Categories:
mustily, angst, beautiful, beauty, confusion,
Form: I do not know?
I wait in all the crummy
little barrooms of the soul.
I look about and sniff the air,
drink, and wait.
In the demi-world of honky-tonks,
which vie against night's
inner gloom, beneath mantles
of thick smoke, pinches,
slurred speech and propositions,
I leer drunkenly about,
swimming in the haze
of my heebie-jeebies.
I wait.
After the smoke clears away
and the honky-tonk tones die,
when the scraggy light of the
morning after spreads, mustily,
across the floor,
I wait.
After the hangover,
after the aching head, glazed eyes,
belches, and specks
which move around my head in circles,
I see a different sort of light:
A flatter sort.
In the sordidness,
ergo filthy waxy sawdust on the floor,
I have seen a conjuration
which I sought.
But soon it disappears
and will not come again.
Illusion slips from mind
with lifting drunkenness
and break of sensibility
and pain creeps in which
is not merely physical.
Oh well.
I must try again tomorrow night.
There will always be another night.
Categories:
mustily, angst, depression, introspection, life,
Form: Narrative
Eternity enchanted by beauty unseen,
a fantasy hidden like treasure you'd dream,
the smell of the air is so sweet I can't think;
The animals there are like words I can't speak;
A dieties palace, A kings paradise,
with no troubles or worries, now that would be nice;
Everybody shows love no hate is up there;
Have mercy dear God I can't wait to get there.
Eternity doomed full of mustily filth,
scorching flame every pain you forever shall feel,
its rottenous maggot filled fungus is gross;
The things you see there frighten whole gangs of ghosts;
Saint Nick with his pitchfork, and horns like a bull,
is a king who rules over his servants too cruel;
and the chaos he brings on the earth is none near,
to the chaos you'll see if you end up down there.
Categories:
mustily, death, life, philosophy, song-visionary
Form: I do not know?