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Lost Souls of the Eternal Gray Day
Lost.
My soul wanders wastelands
Creativity but memory
Love, faded, blowing tattered across a bleak landscape
Love of life
Love of passion
Love of work
Love of relationship
No black
No white
Ethereal grays dominate
Gray matter plastered where energy once thrived
Death of all
Death of success
Death of hope
Death of self worth
Breath
Reboot
Bootstraps clutched
For need of a horizon my path fades to gray
Emote
Emote love
Emote weakness
Emote answers
Intellect
Reliance on intellect falters
Who I am relies on how I feel
Brilliance becomes foreign language
Darkness
No fear here
No nothing here
No answers here
Words
They embody the only power I own
I am a strolling intellectual property without intellect
Only emotions, deadened, faltering, exhausted
Dare
Daring to rise
Daring to hope
Daring to love
End
In the end, what defines us?
Reliance on intellect? Practiced knowledge? Regurgitated facts?
Or essence. Who we see in our internal mirror. How we feel about that frail image.
Lost.
Wasteland surrounds my soul
Shaping life from gray mists which fall back onto themselves
Awareness creeps
Search
Search resilience
Search emotional pockets
Search soul nooks, heart crannies
More death
Death of a world engulfed in hate
Death of philosophies of life and living
Death of the existence I knew
Darkness
Surrounds
Future
Help
Footsteps
My soft-shoe pitter in the mists
Sense of something still living, still breathing
Silent among the whirlwinds of nothingness
Heart
One immense, articulate heart
Thrumming breeze-filled, deftly painted trees from autumn days into existence
Pumping color into the vast eternity of gray
We stand by this ocean of meaningless time, finite
Clutching our sad religions and defenseless opinions on meanings of life
We claim our existence means something, somewhere, somehow, some way
We foist this all onto others in judgment and recompense for debts unknown
All the while fomenting more ilk and rhetoric to cover our complete lack of understanding
For we all awaken to our ultimate lack of truth about this life at some point
Or do we?
Poetry in Black and White 