Thursday, December 11, 2008

Reality

The reigns ride high,
The yoke weighs down,
The vibrant, multifaceted existence,
Burns us with its pressure,
The IS is painful,
The mind is a wrack of consuming,
Zooming through the notion of time,
And yet it’s dull.
The boredom is insidious,
Fleeting joy and unwept grief,
Sift through the mind and spark,
The dark is deafening and silent,
A raging undertow of non-being,
Nothing satisfies, nothing satiates.
There is a blanket of falsity,
An ephemeral wasteland of meaningless
-ness, IS-ness is not.
Lost. All is lost. Nothing in its proper place.
The pace ever-changing,
Hitting from all unexpected angles.
Life is the unexpected alchemy of chaos, change, and stagnant despair.
The question reigns, the question hides,
An unsolveable mystery in an insoluble dread.
Loud, the screams of dying dreams.

Nothing

The grinding, crushing weight of wailing breath and gnashing teeth.
It seems as though a petty joke,
Wearing meaning’s mindless yoke,
And pulling on the reigns of hope,
To find them dangling – attached to nothing.
No love, no life, no death, no grief, no pain, no joy, no spark no fire.
No I or is, or being in the real.
But a picture of a delicious meal,
That taunts and teases, cannot feel,
Cannot taste, cannot heal,
The would created by itself,
The conditions of a conditioned self,
The reality of what is real.
Nothing.
A dull knife cannot cut to the marrow of existence,
To create a real expression,
To cause a real feeling.
It just gnaws away at fading flesh,
Revealing no sickness, providing nothing but a false sensation of sensation itself.
And in all the pseudo-pain and empty joy,
With all the gyrations of a discarded toy,
Nothing.

The Worm

I have a worm, wriggling inside,
It is gray and cold,
Angry and old,
It doesn’t hurt, not really,
Actually it’s kind of numb,
Tingling and dumb.
It gnaws on my soul each day,
Bartering passion for safe dying,
Comfort and buying.
It whispers ugly things behind me,
Twists me in slithery knots,
Connecting invisible dots.
It smells, like old decay,
Somewhat like moldy bread,
I think I might be dead.
It throbs and pulses, dully,
I think it feels like pain,
I ignore it again.