I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the truth of the imagination. John Keats
Truth, to me, is like crack to a junky. You can fire out frivolous words, frill them up, make 'em funky - But give me the good stuff, the nasty stuff, the ugly. As long as it's the truth, shoot me up, I'm your monkey.
The Dark Night of My Soul
I have undone all that was did. Unhidden truths sheathed in a thick scum of unchallenged facts; traditions wreathed with fairy tales; stories; visions; bland adults dressed as fantastical beings on some scrambled saving mission. Which is crueler? Who the hell can know? After all, there is no reason for it to be or not be so. Though, I have drilled down to the nothing land; weeded out excuses drugged with lies, deception justified and manipulated from this moment, right back to the moment of my probed conception. I have stared directly down the barrel of a perilous, unending abyss in curious and stubborn fear, to see what, if anything, of this was true. I have screamed my pointlessness into the darkest, blackest holes; run ragged rings from pole to pole, around murky, muddy milky ways. And all for you. To find some certain realistic magic of a land I never knew - One no longer marked, recited, twisted; screened by second hand. And now I find myself suspended in a space between it all. Held in weightlessness, falling nowhere, freedom floating in free fall from all untrue, misguided and unclean. Waiting but not waiting here and there for you. Seen and not unseen.
It's happening. I didn't think it would to me, I blinkered myself from harsh realities I didn't want to see - Plunged myself head long in sands as, unbeknownst to me, those particles beneath my feet we're leaking out into some secret ether. When I was young I had a naive notion that all parts were mechanised like robot cogs spinning bright, defiantly against the clock; reasoned - guilded fragments could not be hurt; metallic chambers simply rot. But here, another family gathering I notice you - More back than forwards looking now as, cruelly whipping sheets, you show the truth of how those innards actually are vile; vulnerable and sick - like a mad magician unhinging his trick. While left bereft, betrayed, I'm brimming with misguided tears that bust at dams of innocence sweeping currents swilling at gone years; marooning me on rough, ramshackled rafts of memories and laughter jeered and past. Then, lost - You find me, washed up, sand grains later; hold me, let the tide lap gently on your chest. And finally, we see all that is left. And find peace in the magic gone.
Thoughts are not actions Do not be afraid They are fleeting clouds On a free horizon
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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