Cocoon
"Cocoon"
They say...
a New World
traces over the old,
leaving the unaware,
erased, far behind
the old unaware,
left far behind,
crawls the walls
in its web of lies
spinning suspect
strings of silk
in the air
glistening diamond nets
slick and sticky with the sense
of capturing a life
drowning in teardrops
that camouflage the trap it set,
feeling little of nothing
harbouring in its well
tended lack of empathy,
its tricks of confidence,
walking the mucky
sterile floors of Freedom
shining a smile that hides
a crime far beyond incarceration -
another terrible premeditated theft,
there they walk, that paragon,
cruising, no less, with the
cargo they’ve thieved
from that which is remissed,
they talk the talk
and walk the walk,
and they live and breathe,
brokering shallow promises
and stealing dreams
of the sleeping Other's
blueprints
of a rich inner world,
a beautiful life, the architecture
within that which sleeps, quite complex;
while The Cocooned sleep,
exhausted, they find it
succours them that pleasurable
avoidance, it is an isolated habit,
a symptom brought about
by breathing in the constant untruths
of dodgy Freedom salesmen
The Cocooned,
close their eyes
returning to that safe
dark far away removed place,
it is warm and comfortable,
and there The Cocooned
find themselves at peace,
and The Cocooned sleep
and they sleep,
closing out the noise
of the denials
of the paroledphiles
and their cloistered
devil's advocates;
it would seem,
for many seasons
The Cocooned has
contracted this sleeping
disease, lost in the
ghostly cathedrals and
spooky vestal halls of poetry
forging friendships
with other
phantom beings
who partake in the art
of seeking answers
through the writing
of witchery,
casting their spells
of grisled beauty,
romance gone amuck
the love for lost children,
wars, their vengeful birthright,
blue skies, daffodils, sunshine,
holy ghosts, broken bread
and wine, chalices of blood,
the letdown of milk and
hellelujah honey –
far far away cocooned
in the far removed place
of Love and bitter endings
they dream
of new beginnings,
they turn as they sleep,
hibernating on the chance of victory
in deep dreams to be achieved,
erased, left far behind;
They say a new world
traces over the old
leaving the old unaware
erased, far behind
yet in the highest corner
of the room, there is a cocoon
hidden, unthreatening,
it’s been just hanging there
for years and years,
sometimes you can
even imagine you can
see it move
inside
the web of lies
wrapped around the treasure
at the core of the cocoon,
witness the thing
still beating
loud and clear,
Love
is still fed constantly
to that thing
with the scarlet fat of Truth,
it is blood coloured vermillion
and pumping Pimpernel
it feeds on the grit of
strange hymns and poésie
and unaware,
it sleeps and it dreams,
that it is glory bound,
cocooned like a mummy
in vast decades of spider webs,
it waits and it waits
and it waits, and waits
the hidden blows by demons repeat
the bludgeon in a bad dream, like insanity
the dare of the thing inside
inconceivably upstartful, continues to fan
the miniscule embers of hope
holding still a little light
to firestart better larger things
the patience of it
is hard earned,
and commendable,
it is like a little death bit by bit,
inconseqential, to observers
the thing inside burns truth-full
and it becomes exalted, well lit
the observers are oblivious
to the Light of real things,
the smaller life of the better,
that remains living inside
the living shell of itself,
like a soul - it carries those
it meets in their dreams -
it carries them along
for the grand ride,
they have a purpose,
they have a role
there its past is exchanged
for better currency,
the myths and legends
embedded in dark woods
the lost lovers of strange ghosts
of former beings monked,
all meet The Cocooned there,
dressed in scrolls of hidden shining,
gems like Re’ems of poetry,
these odd
elfen beings and spectrals
walk The Cocooned to streams,
where they are dunked
and baptised forthwith – by
overzealous do-gooding priests,
they are then intolerably carried away
on the backs of brookish books
to become Calypso creatures
swimming a Life in deep deep oceans -
meanwhile, back to reality,
buffeted
in its cocoon
by slights and the tawdry
breezes of misfortune
The Cocooned rolls over
and creates ...
a new world, for,
it is still growing
after all
the heart of it
pierces through
the “T”hird eye,
(capital T for Trouble),
situated firmly open
above a sharp mind
and a recalcitrant
spine of steel
sticks and stones
opens further the mind
of the sleep cursed Cocooned, and
like a scarab inside,
the idle heart -
to assuage its hunger -
feeds the smaller bugs to its mind,
nutritious
little morsels, like
the trust, to believe
in birthing
something unseen,
something entirely new
and gloriously revolutionary;
the mind listens to
the heart’s ideas, and
for once...it doesn’t think -
it remains still and cloistered,
and like all things
fed “Love”,
the mind is now opening,
it begins to feel
the mind feels something
new and exciting in higher realms
warmed by a strange Light
that penetrates The Cocooned
from the heart inside out,
and the sadness rises
on the divine notes
of dulcimer music and poetry
what is fed Love,
is never left behind
with the old unaware
erased, walking far away
hand-in-hand with the dead
far below;
They say a new world
traces over the old
leaving the unaware,
erased, far behind
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Re’em.
Kali.
"Tarantula"/This Mortal Coil (Lyrics).
"Kubla Khan"/Samuel Taylor Coleridge, excerpt.
Copyright ©
Candide Diderot
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