I don't really know how to tell you this, but our affair is over. I think I realized it when I finally changed my underwear under the bus and I saw you carve your initials into a Catholic Priest. I'm sure you're high enough to understand that I may pee my pants. I'm returning your love letters to me to you, but I'll keep your left ear as a memory. You should also know that I get sick when I think of your feet and you ruined my attempts at another world war.
What of it now I’ve been wondering when you’d be coming round again.
These parts have lost their luster, rusting away in the dark.
The breeze rustles through here from time to time,
Dragging behind it some tattered soul who stops and waits a while.
But they don’t stay very long , nobody does anymore.
We’re all standing in motion, and some of us get swept away by the tide.
It’s hard to imagine these corners bounced with the vibrancy of expression.
Now they’re the morbid crypts of a once memorable time.
The walls used to sing with the songs of our declarations
And were painted with the feelings we used to share.
Silent is all I hear and the paint has all but faded away.
It’s a ghost town here, we’re all living in a ghost town.
We’re all ghost living in a place without life, without love.
Because without poetry there is no art
And without art there is no soul.
A town without people
Ghosts without souls.
I’ve been wondering when you’d be coming round again,
Thinking if the times were ever gonna change.
Hoping in some innocent manner that they will,
Only to have your absence let me down again.
I’ve been thinking as the sands form another vortex of consuming sentiment,
That spiral and spin to no avail on account of, well nothing.
There isn’t much to me that could give it a run for anything.
And being the last one here I doubt it’s gonna find anybody else.
In some twisted sense it pleads I give it something.
Squeeze at the chords of inspiration and summon my muse
To press out the moist droplets of life you and I used to call
Our beautiful creations.
I can’t answer its prayers. I’m not a god who gives
To the valley of forgotten ecstasies and accepted compunctions.
But we’re all the rulers to the lands of our own imprisonment.
We hear only the clanging of our self-imposed shackles,
And taste the dryness of our own making with the bitterness of fate.
I love looking out hoping by the light of the sun or moon
Some distant shadow will make its way to this disregarded town.
And when I think it somebody, it turns out just to be the shadows of dust and ash
Whipping and curling in the fading light of my eyes.
The church bell tower that used to ring for the pious,
Has long since cracked when the rope couldn’t hold her high anymore.
The flower beds that used to brighten this scene,
Have all withered in their flower beds.
The tombs we used to visit with the flowers we used to grow,
You’d be lucky to find one above the shifting sands.
The animals that used to jump, run and fly,
Well they’ve mosied on out of this town when they could.
I’m telling you friend things have died while you’ve been gone.
And I’ve been hoping, if you’d be willing, to come back to this lonely town.
If you do decide to, I’ll be standing by the rotted oak
Sitting and waiting underneath this once lively tree
Wondering when you’ll be coming round again.
I really like it. Read it a few times and I took in more everything time. What I see in it is an old love. An old love that meant the world to you and now that it's gone, you see no happiness. There's something else too... hope.?
Needless to say, the poem is multifaceted. I was thinking of, indeed, a very close friend whom no longer stands by my side today. However my inspiration found itself in the many friends I have made, but through one circumstance or another also are not there now. But what of this is surprising? Even the mountains change and the oceans claim and lose land throughout the years. Humans are no greater then they. But we demand permanence. We decree stillness and perfection. We outlaw change and reign in immortality. I thought as this once, and that things would last forever. Now I am a prophet of impermanence in the world of continuity.
Lady Bug What of the lady bug
On top of a pane of glass?
The lady bug sees the REAL,
But all he touches is an illusion.
Imagine traversing a plane so close to home,
But ever so far from the concept.
Imagine walking amongst a place you thought was true,
But is just a product of the limited consciousness.
Imagine seeing a reflection and calling it love,
But knowing nothing else but that it’s perceived.
Imagine embracing a crystal and calling it mom,
Yet never knowing what it is you really touch.
Imagine you are the lady bug,
And all the world is a pane of glass.
Before in dust he was conceived,
Before the mud became his skin,
Before the the stones became his teeth
And the rocks his bones,
Were scattered all across the earth
Rocks and stones.
Before the grass was plucked from the earth,
And placed upon his head,
Green rolling hills and grainy plains,
Ruled the soil instead.
Before the the sky was all his iris,
That dome above the earth,
And the night was all his pupil,
Before the stars would shine within his eye,
All the Heavens were but a confederacy;
Nothing but a divided glory.
Before the spider’s sinews
Formed his muscles bound,
Before the universe bore all his weighted guilt,
And the earth his grevious pain,
Before the wind was breath in him,
Before all the ocean and the seas
Moved and swayed his blood within,
And brought this man to life,
Existed all, but none of us;
A barren world of dark.
And echoing in this eternity
Was a whisper in the night.
The star filled night,
The full moon sky
The wind, untethered and free,
The roaring ocean,
The loud singing sea,
And all the worlds in between,
Would call on God to create anew,
To match their image and HIS.
So from their image,
and that of HIS,
he fashioned MAN as thus.
The beauties of all these wondrous thoughts,
Once divided and alone,
were unified in this one humble thing.
And all the horrors that would come,
The crimes against them all,
Were made by the hand of this one beautiful MAN;
The humble creatures that we are.