There come times in life where poetry serves us if we only step up and relinquish the time. Poetry does not have to make total sense to others – only those who align themselves emotionally with the author. For me, there are places I go internally searching out the big questions – mainly, why?
Emotions can run their course in many guises – elation, sadness, depression, affection, and many others. Yet, as an esteemed Rogue wrote yesterday, for all that plays out inside us, our language holds far too few adjectives. As writers, we must craft polished, glinting metal pieces with stone age rock hammer words.
I stumbled around this night in my heart’s word-jungle. I searched for meaning and found none. I explored and tunneled throughout and discovered a pall of darkness settled within me.
The purge of poetry becomes an attempt to lift one’s spirit. Many times the exercise works miraculous wonders. Others, not so much. Forsake this gloom if you will, but do not condemn the poor writer who places such words into the world.
Bernie Taupin once wrote, “…and it feels so good to hurt so bad, and suffer just enough to sing the blues”. Yes, sad songs do say so much. Lest you forget, words to those sad songs are penned by poets…
Love’s smoky voice voyaged between his ears
Silken threads of lilting melancholy
Sadness and beauty, contrary melodies to fill his silence
Her eyes, haunted by passions, pains,
Siren call sluiced throughout his beleaguered heart.
Silent strolls dance his imagination,
Past trees budding to life, flowers winking at a new sun,
Past sullen, rolling hills that beckon his vitality.
Satisfaction an illusion of modern-day insanities
Emotional equilibrium a fantasy no longer traded among the living.
Empathy, care, ardor, flowed his arteries,
Attempted to fill his void – abandoned and derided –
Emptiness the only cause and effect to run true.
Hollow, devoid, hapless, sorrowful,
A lone voice crying into the digital night to no avail.
Where stands the love that saves, salves, cares?
Two so close as to touch on the kinesthetic plane
Universes apart, breathing common air with no connection
Hopelessness born of sentimentality’s demise and passion’s waning light
Little left but the perturbation of affection’s death wail.
Gloom settled like a suffocating, apathetic dust and devoured his spirit
Piece by piece, chunk by chunk, hope by hope
Lifeless vacuum, littered with shards of melting dreams
Each an exhalation of despair as they wink out of existence.
Tethered to and reflected in the final tears from his soul.