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Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Of Poetry and Misery

Oh bastion of virtue, portico of romantics, Muse
Make me pure again

Mortal that I am, re-birth me in your golden light
A child of the Furies

My broken feet are bleeding, tired of dragging against time
Driven through the mire

My shell of being, I am weary of seeing, feeling
Still born in still-life

I haunt the static spaces, in the freedom of my dreams
Forgotten, the will to be…be not

Where is the dream now, the promised-land, love and grace
Why now withhold your hand, bar the gate

Oh god of visions, Apollo, poet, you are the sun
The sire of Sisyphus, the wise…the condemned

The good king was right, life is a joke, only the gods are laughing
We are creatures of ridicule

Who am I, what is the meaning of life, where is my purpose?

When can I answer the eternal questions…Why?
Why me? Why you?

Why is the sky blue? Does anything matter…anything at all?
What can knowing do?

Every beating heart, pounds the rhythm of its dreams
We are carried away by them

The Echo of madness leads nowhere, we are lost in the wild

            Drowned in pools of desire, of vanity