| Poems: 051015 - October 5th, 2015 |
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| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2015/10/05 23:17 |
051015A
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The decaying of flesh
always comes too soon.
Eternity is only a visual cue
projected well beyond reach.
A glimmer of the forbidden.
The shadow on the screen
that separates touch from sight,
becomes another kiss of death.
Another image of the dancer
dancing at the end of time.
There was never enough money
to really please anyone,
who would have been worth pleasing.
They all always wanted more
and they always got it somewhere else.
All the negotiations broken down,
left the bargaining table a wasteland,
made so completely desolate.
It only really happens in persistent movies
of those other people's lives.
That is how the world has changed,
defying all the predictions
that were assembled in childhood.
None of them withstood the test
of everything that came after.
The eyes looking at possibilities
the way a child looked at ice cream
or at an assortment of penny candy.
The realities now hurried away,
without a chance to really taste.
There are many kinds of observations,
as to how everything differs.
It is always too easy to spot the lucky ones,
and to edit out their disinterest,
from the reel of recorded experiences.
That does not claim them forgotten.
Each instance remains etched in mind
the way acid etches a stone,
ready to be grimed up and pressed
as to its dark impressions.
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051015B
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They all seem to have that magic
always going for them.
The kind that brings them what they want
so effortlessly.
Then holds it there,
as a kind of perpetual prisoner
of the same spell.
You could list their mistakes,
and not one of those really mattering
as to the inevitability of outcomes.
If there was a right way
you could never guess what it was
by watching and listening
as to what really went on.
Eventually the mystery overwhelms
any remaining ability to act.
The message remains in one's head
cut short in attempted utterance.
Experience has taught
that it requires a different messenger
to have any real effect.
What remains is a theatrical farce
of various futile motions.
There are always other bidders
who always outbid,
in one way or another.
They would leave one with nothing more
than a cigarette and a blindfold.
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051015C
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Whatever you chance to love,
you always hope to find someone else
who loves something as much as you do.
They never love everything that you love,
but you always hope for something,
rather than nothing being loved.
That often makes it poignantly evident
as to how any sort of love makes one lonelier
and more vulnerable.
It always becomes the point of penetration
where the wound begins,
no matter how you try to defend yourself.
The start of the argument against you,
where you end up being condemned
to various misfit and contrary relations.
The one dimension of the puzzle
that you can never seem to solve,
when the others chance to fit into place.
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051015D
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Despite the brutality of time,
there remain those youthful desires
seeking to find one or other
as was never found,
and so they are more the prisoners
having gained no chance of any escape.
Youth so impetuous
the way a runaway engine gathers steam
racing across the end of the track,
into agonizing wreckage.
The warning against
such wild abandon of constraint.
Wretches held in irons,
beaten to silence,
against their protests.
Starved of anything that sustains,
yet still able to gain strength,
pulling and tugging in desperate ways.
The way the wounded
trapped in the wreckage
writhe and turn,
crying out
from their cruel entanglements
with the mechanism.
More and more they clamor
and cause the jailor to withdraw,
so as to keep such passions chained
to the mind's own dungeon walls,
lest they might chance to sunder
those tightening bonds.
How much easier it must be
for those who found their loves
without having to lock away
what pertains to all such matters,
not having to stand as solitary guards
at that jail's barred and bolted doors.
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