Poems: 270113 - January 27th, 2013

[Robert Morpheal]

270113A
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I cannot say it,
because I do not know how.
There are too many nuances
that defy accurate expression
in the practicalities of language.
Too many sentiments and fears
that have no definite names.

All the various types of pain
that people habitually inflict
without rendering even one blow.
Leaving nothing to hit back at.
Everything that wounds
leaving no marks upon the flesh,
and no blood stains on the floor.

It leaves one looking for exceptions.
It leaves one searching for types of violence
that are purely consensual,
so that one can enjoy some choice suffering,
before being annihilated completely
by all the endless forms of terror and death,
crowded with their agonies of details.

No one asks any questions that really matter,
and the communication is purely generic,
presenting the various types of disinterest.
It is something similar to a fade and dissolve
that starts at the beginning of the story
and continues right to the dark ending,
with nothing else coming in between.

The world I was looking to find,
seems long ago perished into history.
I find a few shards and traces of it
when I excavate and sift dead thoughts.
It seems it was a different village then,
in a very different country.
It makes me wish I could go back.

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270113B
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When you don’t really know,
it is easy to collect all the wrong answers,
along with the many irrelevant questions.
All pieced together into patterns
that ultimately make no real sense
but all seem to fall together into shapes
that appear to suggest or say something.

Take newspaper articles
and piece together portions of their lines,
mixing them at random,
as another way to gain access to the truth.
Never mind that it has been done before,
with similar results as to what can be known.
It still fills the gaps in the story.

Trying to break free,
from various aspects of a strangle hold life,
and you cannot shake free
enough to breathe a relieved breath.
It only chokes you tighter and tighter,
until you come closer and closer
to giving up, and passing away.

You can no longer really imagine
what it was that made you brave enough
to think that you could ever find anything,
that you were really looking for,
anywhere you would ever have chance to look.
They have blown up the bridges,
massacred your allies and mined the only road.

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270113C
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If there is anything at all,
it will surely all come too late,
the way it always chanced to do.
They say it is the only difference
between the quick and the dead.


The others all chose someone quicker,
when they left me for dead.
Now I do not know any of them anymore,
and I feel so very foolish now
for having loved anyone so slowly.

It was all a horrible mistake,
and that only becomes worse with time.
Mistakes being similar to decay,
and other sorts of slow deterioration
that eat away beneath the surface.

Sometimes the only salvation is forgetting
some of the good things,
because remembering all of those
would make living far too painful,
counting all the losses and the costs.

I never see anyone that I used to know.
Sometimes that is a blessing,
not having to reconcile fiction and fact,
in crossing that harsh no man’s land
between reality and imagination.

You never looked me up,
after we chanced to be parted.
I never heard your voice on the telephone.
If you were lingering street corner
I would have mistaken you someone else.

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270113E
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I was hoping you would bless me
with a little of your beauty,
but that too was too much to ask,
even if asking for almost nothing at all.

Now I am as if something undead,
feeling the stake hammered into my chest,
as punishment for striving for some light.
Only another broken and dirtied thing.

The illusion of all those better times,
having slipped too far from my grasp,
I keep reaching for what is never there,
and whispering some worthless words.

It all conspires to want more
never satisfied with anything less,
than anything that I could ever have and give.
The fact of ever new forms of extortion.

I know that you are innocent,
of all the curses, and all the silence.
I know that you don’t know the way it is,
always wondering if there is another after this.

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270113F
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Spent most of my life looking
for what I could never really find.
Always missing another piece
of a hopeless puzzle,
that seems to go together in endless ways
but nothing ever ends up being right.

I am the misfit piece
that never seems to fit into the picture.
The odd thing out,
that breaks all the arrangements.
The sound disturbing someone’s harmony.
The key that cannot find a lock to open.

What wanted me I did not want,
and what I wanted never wanted me.
Always short of what I needed,
and overloaded with what I could never use.
No one ever really asked,
and if I asked I was never really answered.

Seems I am mostly always somewhere
that I do not really want to be,
doing what I really do not want to do.
It made me look more desperately
for what I could never really find,
as if to run away from the darkness to the light.

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