Unextraordinary, as I. Not a brave soul in the world
Remained, that I may be saved
From the sadness of life, from myself even.
A night like the one before, with a pen, alone
Save some music, and distant ties of blood and love
More distant by the day, more distant with the dying,
With the closing of doors, shutting of windows,
With the pouring of gravel.
A cruel man, in a cruel world, each made by the other
As iron sharpens iron.
A desolate forest of lives and darkness, and sadness,
Some mistaking an oasis, for the world.
If the lives of the destitute, are so happy
Then go be like them. Sitting on thrones,
Condescendingly mistaking smiles for happiness.
There is but life, and its demise.
There is poetry, and art, and these are alive
For when the music is gone, so are we.
No more light in her eyes, with the last breath the candle dies.
But life, life carries on, and I feel my stomach yearn
Because I must live, and eat, if my life is to be.
We sit at our tables, and I wonder,
Looking out into the loneliness,
When will anything be my own.
15/05/2011
Hemophiliac.
