All My Falling
Engulfed in myriad frustrations, protestations.
To what victor goes my spoils of war at arms?
At arms length, always and forever, and never.
Statued tearful ironies, won battles, lost war.
To become sour on the mind but taste sweet.
To want so little, and encompassing oblivions.
I so need and have no room to want of need.
Nor for any, ne'er do well, in this well of pitch.
All for lacking, wanders too far off thin edges.
It becomes a shame and a shameful heathen.
Grows weary of all she has let a rain wash in.
A whitewash pane, fogging pains of glass and
All to stare at here; the grim imaginary favour.
Sunlight dance on bare metal, but rust eaten.
Twirling, swirling, fevered madness, not mine.
To sleep through one image, to waken others.
No words, no voice, no concession thereafter.
Exists askew a world, to walk a void between.
To hear, see, to know it still, be still my hands.
In terror I pierce through; its terror freezes me.
Its so cruel; my need to want, and daring drift.
To push through and I find the daylight coldly.
To fall away even in pain of all that of nothing.
What forces wish to meddle in my make up?
Where one hands favour, one breeds my toil.
Where steady made this mine, pain casts off.
Where have they placed my leave, I want this.
I steel my bungling, and recede to steal away.
Both make light of a leadenly, jagged retreat.
And its all sand dunes to begin with, all of it.
Were I to fall further, I should sink beneath it.
No hope therein, none so more in thereafter.
Its varied mirage is nothing more, not for any.
Empty handed, holds my heart of all my dark.
I know it must be. I hear you tell of my woes.
I must stand back, regarding them so coldly.
Its much more than any might stand a weight.
I'm none but splinters to the likes of them all.
And those in the circle where I danced, blind.
Memory serves to sever through my trusting.
Empty handed again? Empty handed always.