Oh, death, the goddess of eternal darkness
Who comes smiling with arms wide to embrace me,
Like a child I am to you, innocent and fearful
Though you know of no human curses
For you are never vindictive, never quick to anger
You grant freedom from the misery and woes of man
To take me to the land that turns on its head to ours
And yet, I remain fearful of your power over me
*
Oh, death, glorious in such dark radiance
Justice is a virtue for the weak, as revenge is for fools
Why must you make a soul wait to see your face?
Longing to kiss you, so to part the gift that was taken
Do you not see that time beckons no knowledge in us
Coy and conniving he is, toying with our flesh and mind
Why must you keep us bound in his chains for so long?
Knowing that you are our guardian to what lies beyond
*
Oh death, forever benevolent and gracious
Why remain silent, with radiant eyes dulled in wisdom
And I know that blessed are those that die young,
Though you rob those that love, the one of their joy
Why do you not tell them that she has found peace?
And that she waits for those she loves patiently
As we are alive, we are also dead; don the smiling mask
So to lead us to where there is a beginning and no end
*
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Raw
La Mort est certaine, l'heure uncertaine.
This might probably be the last poem I write for the next few months to follow. Though I doubt that there is anyone who'd care, but there is life to catch up to and demons to put down again, though it be a battle lost before it is even decided on.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Wisdom of the Gods
But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what I shall soon cease to be - a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others and intolerable to myself.
Mary Shelley 1797-1851
It is strange to observe that considering the odds of gambles and coincidence, we might be fools to persist. Nevertheless, once in a while you have to tread the steps which might lead to a self righteous demise whereas the measure of the will might falter and succumb.
Mary Shelley 1797-1851
It is strange to observe that considering the odds of gambles and coincidence, we might be fools to persist. Nevertheless, once in a while you have to tread the steps which might lead to a self righteous demise whereas the measure of the will might falter and succumb.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
To where I’d belong
Where the winds blew, turned and parried
There I went, far from the course of man
In search of a new land, in search of destiny
Where I’d build a home, free of all woes
And come to terms with this life
Know where I’d belong, know of what I am
*
What sort of a man am I? Never came an answer
Knowing that I have no destiny, I have no dreams
For I eat if I hunger, and drink when I thirst
And Bleed if I need to, though be no reason just
As fate seems to elude me, the beast I am
Hanging lonesome like a torn kite on a tree
*
There are flowers withering before they blossom
But the blessed moon of harvest has come to rise
The fires of the crude stove burns bright again
Golden light shimmers in a glory of promise
No woes to those sleeping on a content stomach
Though tomorrow may bring drought or raiders
*
There is dancing and much merriment to see
The clothes t’were on my back are torn
And there is no-one I know to lend me even a rag
Still I want to see my wife and child dressed gaily
And their smiles in the light of moon is enough
To know I belong here, even as the winds blow far
*
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****
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*
Raw
Its still crude and I have to edit it a lot. Noted diction errors and unstructured thoughts. Will finish and update later. I'm so lazy now-a-days...
There I went, far from the course of man
In search of a new land, in search of destiny
Where I’d build a home, free of all woes
And come to terms with this life
Know where I’d belong, know of what I am
*
What sort of a man am I? Never came an answer
Knowing that I have no destiny, I have no dreams
For I eat if I hunger, and drink when I thirst
And Bleed if I need to, though be no reason just
As fate seems to elude me, the beast I am
Hanging lonesome like a torn kite on a tree
*
There are flowers withering before they blossom
But the blessed moon of harvest has come to rise
The fires of the crude stove burns bright again
Golden light shimmers in a glory of promise
No woes to those sleeping on a content stomach
Though tomorrow may bring drought or raiders
*
There is dancing and much merriment to see
The clothes t’were on my back are torn
And there is no-one I know to lend me even a rag
Still I want to see my wife and child dressed gaily
And their smiles in the light of moon is enough
To know I belong here, even as the winds blow far
*
**
***
****
***
**
*
Raw
Its still crude and I have to edit it a lot. Noted diction errors and unstructured thoughts. Will finish and update later. I'm so lazy now-a-days...
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Weeds
The wanderer walks eying the spire of ambitions
In the distance endless as the want of eternity
He has no money,
He says that even when he thought he could buy pleasure
There was no form or shape in its rustle for a smile
And the heavy paper could not be writ on
Leaving him bare as the road he walks upon
*
The roads upon which he walks looms long and far
Never does have a bed to sleep or a pillow to rest his head
He has no house,
He mused that once where he thought he had somewhere to be safe
The walls took to grow upon him and swallow him whole
All he had was stolen or taken save for his soot and solitude
And there was nothing to which he could hold or call his own
*
And so walks the wanderer in search for meaning
Trees struggling against the wind, a lake frozen white
He has no lover,
He says that everytime he searched for one where he'd belong
She took to be a silhouette walking upon the hard ice upon water
He slipped, he sank, he drowned, he burnt and he suffocated
Never came her slim white wrists to pull him from the blindness
*
And he came to the day where he took his final steps
The footsteps of the gods which he chased never came to sight
He struggles for breath,
No money, a fugitive of love, no house and one without a job
He died as he came, with nothing to have or hold on to
And all that remained of him was the beauty of life itself
Closed eyes still chasing dreams free of hunger, debts or a will
*
**
***
****
***
**
*
Raw
I was studying philosophy and catching up with the schools of logic. Every word has a function and every sentence has to take a form in sense for the sake of argument. But what of the heart which knows of no reason or the scheme of rhyme and purpose. What be the use of words and its purpose when life in itself for most make for little or no sense.
In the distance endless as the want of eternity
He has no money,
He says that even when he thought he could buy pleasure
There was no form or shape in its rustle for a smile
And the heavy paper could not be writ on
Leaving him bare as the road he walks upon
*
The roads upon which he walks looms long and far
Never does have a bed to sleep or a pillow to rest his head
He has no house,
He mused that once where he thought he had somewhere to be safe
The walls took to grow upon him and swallow him whole
All he had was stolen or taken save for his soot and solitude
And there was nothing to which he could hold or call his own
*
And so walks the wanderer in search for meaning
Trees struggling against the wind, a lake frozen white
He has no lover,
He says that everytime he searched for one where he'd belong
She took to be a silhouette walking upon the hard ice upon water
He slipped, he sank, he drowned, he burnt and he suffocated
Never came her slim white wrists to pull him from the blindness
*
And he came to the day where he took his final steps
The footsteps of the gods which he chased never came to sight
He struggles for breath,
No money, a fugitive of love, no house and one without a job
He died as he came, with nothing to have or hold on to
And all that remained of him was the beauty of life itself
Closed eyes still chasing dreams free of hunger, debts or a will
*
**
***
****
***
**
*
Raw
I was studying philosophy and catching up with the schools of logic. Every word has a function and every sentence has to take a form in sense for the sake of argument. But what of the heart which knows of no reason or the scheme of rhyme and purpose. What be the use of words and its purpose when life in itself for most make for little or no sense.
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