Still repetition, a cloud which comes each day.
Materialises without beckoning, she knows the way.
If the devil makes work for idle hands…
Then death has a plan for those that do cup sands.
Her patience unwavering as she speeds up the clock.
Her black material entwined with every life, does lock.
But to run, so futile. For she has been there before.
You are a blink of her eye, yet in her sights evermore.
Infinite chaos, what else would you call,
Explosions and ice spheres who cannot fall.
But spin into endless time and depth,
Nay, what time is there to area with no breadth.
A pressing abyss, fruit on a branchless tree.
Who’s purpose is not to feed, but to be.
If there is motivation, it would not be pure.
But motivation-less, then there is no cure,
For the wonder I feel when I look into night sky,
To be alone, the moon, the stars and I.
Concrete walls line sky topped streets,
Home to stains, the unwanted, those it meets.
The lure is too much, the venus riding on shell.
It’s pebble dashed features, the structures of hell.
Food to feed a nation, devoured,
Reappears on those streets so slick, in early hours.
False promises reign with sketches of futures brighter,
Reling on masking money with sprouting greens and days lighter.
The dreams are bought and sold.
Although the views they build give way to what was truely old.
Hills which may one day reclaim,
The land they ruled as they rose to fame.
Once you meant the world to me,
But when I grew, all we had, destroyed,
For what was selfless sacrifice from you,
In fact a projection of what I felt devoid.
There is no turning back for me.
Only twinges of guilt, mistreating a friend.
Leaving a cold shelf to support and shade you,
As my repayment. On you I can not depend.
What would mean the most to me,
If you could plainly feel my grateful heart.
But what could it mean to you,
When only I can feel us part.
Save the patter of the rain, for it might save your life one day,
What was taken slowly from you, it can not easily be repaid,
But may in time give lessons of past virtue and proove,
What once was lost is not gone forever, just moved,
Whilst you still remember what was once there,
It lives within, deep down, a marker of time,
The certainty burnt to you forever more,
Curcial to who you have become,
A marker for your stride,
Should it still atest,
You may know,
For I am now,
What was,
There.
I hope god is there.
Keeping a balance good and fair.
For if I am but a figment,
Naught but a swipe of his brush and pigment,
It matters not what I can bare,
For decisions are made from lofty chair.
I hope god is kind.
So they would be in heart and mind.
But what is love, when cast by creator,
Is creation kindness enough, spoke the debater.
Could all their actions leave love behind,
And shed responsibility of thoughtless mankind.
I hope god is wise.
Not the instigator of their own demise.
As thoughtful as their very silence predicts.
Rather than shadow to a world that contradicts,
A very presence past serene skies.
Could a world of cruel logic, be their disguise.
To break is to build,
For what you know is the start.
All the ingredients instilled,
For your project fulfilled.
Oh won’t you make haste, with heart.
Crack open your mind,
With weapon of choice.
Embrace the parts you find,
For it is our future, redefined.
For whatever you make, rejoice.
Know that it is yours,
Made from the broken things.
Even if you should wait and pause,
No one could take it by any clause,
What pour out innocent, from sins.
I train my mind not to wonder,
But it’s most precious thoughts are those,
That I did not try to build or find,
But float into my waking repose.
My mind’s sight no longer clouded,
By creative whims or urge,
For in it’s age brimming full,
With darker thoughts, all converge.
And would you wish to break free?
To lay in that inspired light,
For liberation has a cost, a price,
Could it be idleness and plight.
For only the tragic are moved,
Do the inspired seek the forsaken,
And keep their purpose drawn close,
Are we to know what truely made them.
So why not wake into my own story,
Shape what was truly gifted to me,
For aren’t we all cursed and broken,
If I plead my creativity to be wild and free.
To capture the stars and their perfect form,
A dream of preserving their light.
Like trying to capture the eye of a storm,
Oh how could you keep something so bright.
To us they sit quiet, on night’s dark platform,
Just out of reach, from any grasp or might.
But in systems they burn as a swarm,
A life cycle itself, it’s own death, it’s fright.
Distance hides their terror, their reform,
True nature a mystery which passions do insight.
In it’s mystery a wonder stirs, keeps warm,
Those far off pieces of our puzzle, our right.
Unpredictable,
Graceful and strong, form anew,
Rise spoke the new waves.
Inharmonious,
But united by ocean heart,
Crash spoke the new waves.
Invulnerable,
Gone, just as they were begun
Silence spoke the waves.
Sweet Perplexity 