Have I ever known it?
Being born, so strange it seems
What is this event? So alien
I know nothing of it
Only the struggling
The ripping through cottony fog
The fragmentary whispers, the sound slowly becoming steady
What weird thing was seeking to continue?
Yet strange artifacts linger
I cannot read their decayed messages
The colors have been dulled by fire and water
The metal is tarnished and bears the nasty rust of ruin.
Gear are frozen and mere fragments hint at something magnificent
Yet I cannot reconstruct it.
So let me destroy it
Let it haunt me no more.
These are the remains of what once lived
No one can undo the damage.
There is no joy left here.
Even affection cannot heal these words.
Touch is individual.
Meanwhile
Crystalline fragments of doubt
Tear and shred the bubble of hope
An insubstantial puff of breath
The window at the end of the world
Rehearsing for disasters that have not happened yet
Why dare hope
When the chasm of grief could swallow the Earth?
A fragment of hope makes terror possible.
A little hope only burns the flesh of the mind.
An inferno that even hell must envy.
Have I ever known connection?
Sorrow connects.
Drawn up from the unhallowed pit
Restless and wandering, hungry forever
The ones who would be the savior of the world,
Are destroyed by it.
Compassion immolates
And tender is tinder.
While the world is old and dry
Ripe for the torch!
Affection?
She is no stranger
But a distant friend
No, an acquaintance
Never unreachable
Always distracted, inhibited
Unreliable as a cloud
What of the varieties?
Oh, they are endless
As countable as the grains of salt in the ocean
Drowning as often as they dry
One of the better commentaries on the Civil War that I’ve seen in at least the past few weeks on this forum. Nice going!
The cottony warmth refers to Whitney’s nefarious cotton jin…an instrument of satan which gave slave owners plenty of incentive to continue their dubious pursuits.
Strange artifacts perfectly capture the bayonets and muskets of yore, and how we have trouble piecing together the intent of our forefathers…and we give up in despair.
“Yet strange artifacts linger/I cannot read their decayed messages” I recognize from Lincoln In His Own Words/Random House. Your postmodern manipulation of the obscure phrase transmogrofied through the Yatesian melancholy of impending chaos is more than striking. What you’ve done here is portray “honest Abe” with his very honesty working against him to create the greatest pain of all and he can only look on as the center crumbles.
The primal memories of God, the shards of white hot hope, the growing cynism approaching oblivion – these three elements make wonderful bedfellows in what’s sure to be the next big thing off Broadway this summer. For more information contact Ticketmaster at 1-800-HELL. You got NOTHING to lose.
n of slave owners plenty of incentive to continue their dubious pursuits.
Strange artifacts perfectly capture the bayonets and muskets of yore, and how we have trouble piecing together the intent of our forefathers…and we give up in despair.
“Yet strange artifacts linger/I cannot read their decayed messages” I recognize from Lincoln In His Own Words/Random House. Your postmodern manipulation of the obscure phrase transmogrofied through the Yatesian melancholy of impending chaos is more than striking. What you’ve done here is portray “honest Abe” with his very honesty working against him to create the greatest pain of all and he can only look on as the center crumbles.
The primal memories of God, the shards of white hot hope, the growing cynism approaching oblivion – these three elements make wonderful bedfellows in what’s sure to be the next big thing off Broadway this summer. For more information contact Ticketmaster at 1-800-HELL. You got NOTHING to lose.
its so empty. as if you have just lost everything.