Poems: 230313 - March 23rd, 2013

[Robert Morpheal]

230313A
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Looking for you in my dreams,
having never found you
with my eyes opened wide,
in the horror story we call a world.

I try to make my escape
by lowering eyelids into the dark,
trying to seek comfort in any abyss
that I chance to be able to find.

I met the girl from the brain wash station,
and everything had washed away,
the way a flood strips the land
down to rivers of mud.

There were many more,
who were all exactly the same as her.
The flood having taken everything,
making what remained unrecognizable.

Somewhere I saw a red flag
rising above the ruins of broken cities,
signifying that no one was left alive,
and everything had been plundered.

The entire century that we came from
had been completely wiped out,
turned into nothing more than vast battlefields
with flowers exploding as readily as guns.

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230313B
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How easy it is to never meet,
in a city of hundreds of thousands,
and even easier
in a city of a million or more.

The more there are,
the less chance there seems to be
as to chancing to meet,
as anything more than statistics.

Everyone meets as statistics,
joining in to the demographic mix,
where no one need be left out,
from being sorted and categorized.

The more places that one goes
the more chance
of being in the wrong place
at the wrong time.

It is the odds
that one can never get even with.
It is always at least as difficult
as reaching for the heavens.

The universe is billions of years old
and it still has not found
whatever it is looking for,
in all that rushing infinity of outburst.

I hear someone in the distance,
yelling and throwing something.
There are gunshots on a far horizon.
The news is destruction and carnage.

There is no getting free
from how it all pulls one down to ruin,
everything mirroring the same violence
of the births and deaths of worlds.

I still want to find you and know you
for no other reason, no hidden motive,
before we too become only ghosts
of the births and deaths of worlds.

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230313C
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Cancelled tickets to nowhere
accumulate on the cluttered table.
Each offered an absurd hope
that did not stand a chance in Hell.
All those eager little adventures
that failed to find your own lost city.

It takes such an absurdly long time
to become truly discouraged,
until starting to wonder
where that courage came from or went to.
Every time you were pushed into falling,
you always struggled to get back up again.

It is about how many bruises it takes,
before it is the only black and true blue
that you ever really know any of,
trying to find a way out of the red,
and being shot down again,
having been noticed by the big guns.

A life is lost in increments,
of repeated frustration and boredom.
Trying to reinvent your self,
but they deny you the necessary patent,
claim copyright infringements,
and say that you didn’t measure up.

Kept cashing in those chips,
never finding a winning hand.
The game was always fixed,
and that was part of their master plan.
The routine breaking your wings
leaves nothing to mend.

No one ever really asked me
what it was that I wanted,
or what it was that I might do.
No one ever really told me
what was happening behind my back
until I felt the knife go in.

I am not the one they wanted,
and they are not the ones for me.
Waiting for someone different,
might as well be waiting for a savior
that never never really comes,
no matter which side one is really on.

Cars pull up and pull away,
but I never catch a glimpse of your face.
The streets are crowded with people,
but there are no names to remember
and no one remembers me.
Everyone is thinking of someone else.

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230313D
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The first living things,
breaking up layers of decay,
are reminders of the first time.
The first time for anything,
that broke through rotting darkness,
defying various deathly conspiracies
as would have prevented exactly that
expression of living flesh.

When everything is about getting in,
and breaking through,
for the sake of the soft warm,
that might last at least until morning,
hiding from the screaming night
the way outlaws hide out,
in various conditions of rebellion,
along with angels who cannot go home.

It is the season that tempts too much.
One learns not to think of anyone
from out of the past, with any emotion.
There is no need to raise the dead.
They would never thank you for it.
A season when desire goes to extremes,
the way the first flower is extreme
in its contrast to everything dead.

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