23 October, 2014

Writing the Wrongs

Writing the Wrongs

There is no muse for this music to play for. 
The coffers lain barren longer than dreams. 
Achingly etching the notes in monosyllabic
Tempos losing the value; means of melody. 
Citing a disease's fortune owning my soul. 
Its pocks to bare relevance but only blandly. 
Contentedly misguided by my feverishness
All I am to sing writ upon a wall none pass. 

It hungers for any eye to trace this tapestry. 
Such wintry reception repeats into the void.
It becomes swallows of dark temptation to
Lead the weary jester further from the flock. 
Transfixed by the fixture of these sentiments
Even as they bury into cacophonies of woes. 
It becomes a bloodletting, piercing a mind to
Make known all splendors; so too the horrors. 

Frightful still, those who would search it out,
To taste the wretched waters that flow there. 
To swallow pieces of the melody, to see into
A chasm where a heart shrivels to die awake. 
To join in solace at the price of feigned sanity. 
How can a peaceful soul step by this place?
It is the truth of nature that one becomes to
None, and the absolution of the math is key. 

It breeds an idle stupour, fresh downpours to
Breathe life into a husk, a tree behind my wall. 
And another word is born into the blankness
To bare me fruit that smells sweetly poisoned.
Never enough to kill me, only meant to maim.  
Mother may I sleep away what days are left?
Always to the same. Turn a page, turn a leaf. 
There is no rest, wicked, only another melody. 


No comments: