Poetry

Rebuilt With Fire

Why is it that I can’t move,
Nor can I stay in one place.
It’s like life has forgiven me,
And yet has strangled me.

The ambitions, dreams, motivations,
They matter little to me.
Unlike before;
They no longer drive me

Poetry feels like penance
For crimes never committed.
Unless unfulfilled dreams,
Were crimes for me to see.

It’s as if light has averted me;
Dwelling in darkness is all I see.
For little has perhaps changed,
Discounting the hope that has forgone me.

Like a broken glass vase,
Rebuilt with the ire of fire.
What has life become for me.
What has life become of me.

Erratic Scribbles

Empty Salvation

Perhaps, maybe his salvation lay in the chaos of many things and possibilities, instead of just one. Every day he woke to search the answers that might rest his soul, with a weight on his back that had no form and was invisible to all but him. Or so he liked to think.

Life was never the same after that one day when he decided to kill the monster he deemed was holding him back. As the growls grew silent, his apathy showed through his pale face. His restless eyes became dim with darkness and a blank stare looked right through what was in-front of him. The least of what was killed that night was the monster, and in the bloodbath, another monster grew in it’s place.

One for the other, he imagined. It was better than nothing cause at least the new one he could train, perhaps even subdue. Even he knew he was lying, even though he wanted to believe it he knew. Life was cruel to give him a voice that told him right from wrong at an early age. But he would rarely comprehend why something was like it was, why something was right even if fit may appear wrong, or why, even in the chaos of all things, it all fit.

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He knew life was temporary. Once, he welcomed that thought hesitantly, keeping it out the door and asking to knock before it’s time. Today, that was no longer the case.

Perhaps, maybe, his thoughts would etch themselves on stone and amber, to deliver what he wanted to say. Perhaps he would be understood thousands of years later or in a time when it’s irrelevant, but he wanted to try. Of all things he was scared of, it was his brief time in the world that let him know that he was alone. His ability to see how big everything was and the ambition to drive things even further, it lead him to a life where he thought he could do more but achieves little. In the pursuit of understanding the world, he forgot to build himself up in a way where he would be understood.

Maybe none of it mattered. Maybe it’s all just ramblings on paper. Paper that don’t even exist.

There was however, always a chance for things to be miraculous. And that he knew, so he strewn the world with his ramblings in places where one day, with a thousand generations gone, perhaps he would know whether he was right to chase after his life, after what he thought was his soul.