Monthly Archives: September 2016

Nihilistic Optimism

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Life is pain and then you die.
Why should I bother to even try?
Days pass by quickly,uncaring.
They do not ask how I am fairing.
It makes no difference, this or that.
It won”t take much to see where I’m at,
In the ocean cold.
Slowly sinking, grasping soul.
Treading water just prolongs,
My end, the bottom, where I belong.

But life is joy before you die!
And joy and love! Still we cry.
Something so fickle and sweet as life
Becomes fermented and stale with time.
One should not wish it to be forever
That it should continue, ending never.
We all end up at the bottom it’s true
Before then I’ll be with you,
Spending the happy hours,
Loving, laughing, avoiding sour
Looks and words that would stain
Our souls if from within they came.

Let the day pass by so quickly!
I’ll not be one who, sickly,
Sits and waits and wastes the time,
What little we have, like a slime,
Trapped on the edge of the ocean, not in it,
Not loving life, but afraid of it.
Life is pain and darkness frightening,
The end comes quickly before the ripening.
In this small time, I’ll make the most
Never fearing the inevitable ghost.
No sorrow in death. It is and it must.
Then we live on, after first turning to dust.

Weary Paws

On weary paws
Through stretched out days
Blood stained claws
To memory fades.
“No rest for the wicked”
An unfair sentiment?
Because he’s unrestful
Means he’s not innocent?
Onward he plods
Through wind and though rain.
Those looking down,
Unaware of his pain.
Unaware and uncaring
The crowd stares on.
Mountains cold and glaring,
Bear has been gone so long.
Gone with no place to rest.
His cave found empty
He sleeps. Hoping for the best:
A welcoming dawn to see.

A Burial of Youth

The old, too tired to dig the graves
Required by their sons they couldn’t save.
Left behind instead of leaving,
There is a sorrow first conceiving
Anger, and then the bitter taste
Of youths absence, such a waste.
We’re left to linger, this should not be!
This day was meant for younger eyes than me!
In this evening there are no words.
In this moment the past and future confer,
And those who remain will be loved a little more,
We’ll hold them closer than we ever did before.

This was written in dedication to my friend who recently lost her youngest son. I’ve seen too many children buried by their parents in my time and it’s always a tragedy and never easier to deal with.


Quote

Lucida

She was born and Lucida was her name.
Constant was her existential crisis
To her condition lay all of the blame
And pass responsibility of this
To nobody else per her solitude.
To her, it seemed, others were too distant.
Possessing this mindset, this attitude,
She has borne the cold mask of dissidence.
She would soon discover, but now unknown,
Like those of the sky: Vega and Rigel,
She among many, the brightest to glow.
What is seen on her surface predicts well
The beauty within only others see.
She’ll learn she is as much as she believes.

All is Laid to Rest

Once forgotten all is laid
To rest and in the grave.
He profits nothing from the past
There’s nothing there of what lasts.
If it cannot get him through the day
It might as well be locked away.
To be sure there’s beauty there,
Joy and freedom, all but rare,
And mixed up in times shifting sands.
Irretrievable! They’re left to this desolate land!
He awakens the next day none the wiser.
Or is he now he won’t dredge the desert to find her?
I’ll leave that question to philosophers who will,
Debate his morality while sitting on a hill.

No Peace.

She laid her once holy blade in the mud,
Raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun,
To gaze across a wasteland soaked in blood.
She looked for her brothers, for survivors, anyone,
Naught but frozen, lifeless eyes met her gaze.
Thousands and thousands marched with her from home,
So quickly torn from their halcyon days,
To the final resting place for their souls.
For herself she weeps, not so much the dead.
Her price? No release for herself to find.
For such a price, can “This is peace.” be said?
She mourns for the world that she’ll leave behind.
There’s no absolution in crimson tide.
There is no peace where so many must die.

Who Reach into the Soul

   There are those who watch our souls from beyond the shadows and behind the vacancy of night, who, wishing to become one and unbeknownst to us, plot to enter and twist the silent minds laid before them, that lay unguarded, for their foolish owners dare not believe in the thieves that threaten at every turn.
   Where shadows speak the spirit longs to flee and I with them, for who knows the length of arm the ones who reach into the soul?