meditation of an overgrown lake
I trekked the many miles away from here-
and found myself going in circles.
The further I went-
the closer I got-
to the self-condemned freedom of my passage.
For every globe of dawn I witnessed-
the midnight moon grew thicker.
Till strange streets tangled
around my neck-
in an unbareable claustraphobia of Time.
In playing to every whim of my spirit-
the slavery of youth intensified.
The flavour of life,
and the texture of being
were lost in race to fogetfullness.
By contemplating the end of my thoughts-
I sufferred a decade of headaches.
And the struggling light
was gone-
blurred in a kaleidescopic whirl of distraction.
As I rode along the precarious cliffs of consciousness,
My feet dangled on the dilapidated dock.
Till the Unknown
became a seductive addiction,
a call to the rippling pools of blackness.
The reflection of trees so startled me-
that I was moved by the tragedy of decayed beauty.
Because in its destitution-
it was supremely perfect-
Pristine in the labratory of nature's folly.
In the fury of all my scribbling
came the most acute of silences.
Disappearing into the body of words-
an exacting silence so fierce
it dismanted the gravity of my paper world.
Perhaps it is sufferring that pays the price-
the almighty cost of our inconsistencies.
Inflictions of pain-
submitted so willingly-
as a means to define our own flawed humanity.
What convoluted form of maturity-
is the quest to dimiss experiences?
Begging for senseless senses
of unsound Reason-
so gratefully abondoned to the Mason jar of childhood.
How gently should life be lived-
as advised by the delicate furvor around us
the grace of winter-
the traffic of summer-
in a contradicting scope of all-encompassing life.
The pulsating world that we people so abuse-
is the horrendous disrepair of a healing carress
so that sorrowful belief-
is the foundation of happiness-
the most potent evidence to the realness of reality.
The broken Self is paved into a runway-
awinged to the flights of a struggling imagination.
And our worst nightmare
is the most holy of places-
Birthplace to the sheltered power of dreams.
and found myself going in circles.
The further I went-
the closer I got-
to the self-condemned freedom of my passage.
For every globe of dawn I witnessed-
the midnight moon grew thicker.
Till strange streets tangled
around my neck-
in an unbareable claustraphobia of Time.
In playing to every whim of my spirit-
the slavery of youth intensified.
The flavour of life,
and the texture of being
were lost in race to fogetfullness.
By contemplating the end of my thoughts-
I sufferred a decade of headaches.
And the struggling light
was gone-
blurred in a kaleidescopic whirl of distraction.
As I rode along the precarious cliffs of consciousness,
My feet dangled on the dilapidated dock.
Till the Unknown
became a seductive addiction,
a call to the rippling pools of blackness.
The reflection of trees so startled me-
that I was moved by the tragedy of decayed beauty.
Because in its destitution-
it was supremely perfect-
Pristine in the labratory of nature's folly.
In the fury of all my scribbling
came the most acute of silences.
Disappearing into the body of words-
an exacting silence so fierce
it dismanted the gravity of my paper world.
Perhaps it is sufferring that pays the price-
the almighty cost of our inconsistencies.
Inflictions of pain-
submitted so willingly-
as a means to define our own flawed humanity.
What convoluted form of maturity-
is the quest to dimiss experiences?
Begging for senseless senses
of unsound Reason-
so gratefully abondoned to the Mason jar of childhood.
How gently should life be lived-
as advised by the delicate furvor around us
the grace of winter-
the traffic of summer-
in a contradicting scope of all-encompassing life.
The pulsating world that we people so abuse-
is the horrendous disrepair of a healing carress
so that sorrowful belief-
is the foundation of happiness-
the most potent evidence to the realness of reality.
The broken Self is paved into a runway-
awinged to the flights of a struggling imagination.
And our worst nightmare
is the most holy of places-
Birthplace to the sheltered power of dreams.
posted by HindiK at 11:41 PM
2 Comments:
KTVE Region 10
"It is a fun way to keep in touch with people from like different places," Molly said.
You have a super blog here! I'm bookmarking this site.
I have a old coin value site. It covers old coin value related stuff.
Come and check it out if you get time :-)
That was great. i took gentle guidance to get me through that, but now i can honestly say that thats a great poem.
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