Bedlams Wake

 

 

     The Crafted hand and absurd mind

Seeks absolution from

Quartered soul of ridicule,

From the purgatory

And punishment designed

By deceiving devils,

 

     The Utopia gone,

All Space has grown only Hell,

Death itself no release

But an onward evolving

Misery.

 

     Sincere optimism once

Bestowed itself plain

As day upon Saints,

For they could do no wrong,

But their expectant journey

Began in earnest with beatings

With humiliation

With no obligation to the child,

No respect for innocence.

 

     Now the crafted hand -

Wavers, the mind split - vibrates

With the resonance of doom,

 

     He shakes,

His tears old,

His blood cold,

 

     Embattled

By sadness, regrets – misfortunes

And the solid states of

His true isolation;

He writes reflective prose

As he tries to understand,

Tries so desperately to comprehend

The history,

 

     Alas,

His gift withering in the

Frozen wastelands where all

Intellect is banished,

His true intention deems

He broken; seals -

A fate of interrupted existence,

 

     His belief;

That the only true experience

Ends with own choice,

For it is freedom he seeks

From the pale landscape

He tried to colour with warmth,

 

     As the demons remain unyielding,

Taunting his effort,

Threatening return on return,

He ceases his imagination

That once inspired

His gait,

 

     He is done,

The pallid flesh drained

The crafted hand still,

The absurd mind -

No longer challenged,

 

     Exhaled,

His resting place

The grounds of a World

Where the multitudes

Throng together in madness,

The day to day cacophony

Drowning silent flight,

In bedlams wake

He bathes in a radiant sun,

And rises beyond the shadows

Of Men and of Women,

Who still desire their lives.

 

 

Michael J Waite 23^rd January 2017.