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IMMORTAL ECHOESPlaying this echo game of Thought & Imagination, & finding solace only in the Silence between. |
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May 07 Whisper.very abstract...or not. you decide. An octave of sound Cutting corners in the circle of light Attempting to grasp unattainable words Once the curtain has droppped Awaken from the mere dream October 03 Crimson Dawn. I look into the night sky And see that it is red A reflection of the blood-stained ground Which lies soaking with the dead Yet the vision is so customary I’ve seen it all before Being surrounded by the plague of death Doesn’t affect me anymore At first I cried bitter tears And asked the silence “why?” But gradually I accepted my fate And now I wait to die Only then will all the violence The cruelty and malice cease Only then will I live freely And be able to dream in peace For neither consciousness nor deep sleep Can provide a safe escape From the confines of toxic hatred That man managed to create Now an imprint on the future An everlasting stain Never to be wiped away Not even by cleansing rain The teardrops from the heavens Now drop steadily to the ground While dissolving the bloody blankets In which they were initially found So now the sky dawns clear Opening up my empty eyes To the stars that dance before them Like flashing fireflies And for a moment I am lost In the memories of yesterdays That had long since evaporated Into a dark and blurry haze But whatever dreams were playing In the recesses of my head Are rapidly dissipated By the screams of the almost-dead Their cries echo dying animals Who know they have been defeated And wish for some final sympathy For how they have been treated I wander through their bodies Where hungry mouths hang open wide I block out all their shrieking As hands clutch at my side Beckoning to no avail With frantically darting eyes That freeze suddenly in mid-blink Focused towards the skies No more noise or desperate clinging No more pity for their pain The clock of life’s stopped ticking And won’t ever start again The silence of the still earth Is mirrored in the sky Where the candles lighting the fireflies Also chose to die And now the sky’s a blank void In a hollow world of waste Where the rotting air I breathe Is acrid to the taste And I wonder why I live on In this world devoid of light Where hope was drowned by madness In the shadows of the night I remember hearing Hell described And being told to beware But I do not fear it anymore For I’m already there -Jeevy Sounds Of Memory April 29 Almost L-Over I'm the sad story collector Luring into some (un)known shade of nostalgia Strolling inside a chaos that was already there. &... You're the chaser of disaster Casting devastating catastrophes Into a soul that was already broken. together... We're such tragic lovers, Glooming out the night with nurturing words that never stood a chance in the middle of this silence. & all I have now is rehearsed poetry and meaningless verses Etched into my skin & the memory of the lips that tasted like heartbreak. But I thought there would be some landing point in the falling... & all I remember now are the empty promises and stolen clichés Imprinted in my brain & the image of the irises that were sadder than a teardrop. But I thought there would be a bit of fresh air in the drowning... I need someone with a little fire in her veins that is not intent to burn me. I need someone who doesn't leave me seeking for amnesia In a battlefield of feelings. You cast your tragic ending Long before the start, I died close to the beginning of what we could have been Once inside the finish line. Now your sadness cling to me like a second skin & your lies run through my bloodstream I'm bleeding pain in the form of a novel, & I'm beating art in the shape of your beam. I'm the junkie of your cocaine words and the Bastard of your Prozac fingers. But you're as addictive as you're numbing Let me sink into oblivion because it hurts me believing there would (not) be some kind of beauty in the breakdown... March 20 Raining Tears. They cried because he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Why would he? She was dead. So what? She didn’t mean anything. Not then, not now, not ever. So why would he cry? He wouldn’t because she wasn’t worth it. Surveying the gloomy funeral scene, he noticed storm clouds gathering, contributing to the already depressing mood. The morbidly beautiful scent of death lingered in the still, heavy air, mixed with the salty scent of tears, both shed and unshed. Around him, men and women clad in black stood and paid their respects to the now deceased woman. Her sudden departure had left a searing hole in all of their hearts, even his, though he’d never admit to anyone, especially himself. He couldn’t bring himself to admit such a weakness, such a flaw. So what if she had been his only source of light? He didn’t need her. He didn’t need anyone, especially her. What made her so damned special anyways? During his silent brooding, the cemetery slowly emptied as people made their way home, some still crying and all of their souls burdened with the loss of a great friend. It was late in the afternoon when he was the only one left. The skies overhead were an ominous gray, heavy with unshed tears. Walking towards her grave, he wordlessly read what was inscribed on the slab of pavement. Throughout the entirety of the funeral, not one tear had dared escaped from his eyes. Even now, when no one was around, he still would not cry. She wasn’t worth his tears, at least, not in his eyes. He glared at her tomb, as if somehow that would drag her soul back into the living world, where he believed she belonged. She had such charisma in life; such a charming personality that no one could resist. Not even death, he mused silently, his aching heart screaming in pain and torturing his hazy mind. Now that she was dead, it seemed like her ray of light was clouded by a blanket of unbreakable darkness. Stuck in the black abyss of death, she would remain there for all eternity, having only herself as company. Yet, he still felt no sorrow for her, at least not enough sorrow to actually cry. It was her own damned fault she was dead in the first place. Why did he have to pay for her mistakes? Gently tracing the edges of her tombstone, memories of her flashed through his mind, stabbing away at his nonexistent heart. He looked up at the gray sky, wondering why it hurt so much, especially when she meant nothing to him. What had he done to deserve this? Letting out a loud, bitter, sarcastic laugh, he realized the answer to his own stupid question. What hadn’t he done to deserve this? “Even in death, you still haunt me,” he spoke, his voice but a faint whisper in the wind, as if he feared that speaking any louder would cause his very existence to crumble and shatter. As he continued standing there, lamenting her death, he noticed that little droplets of rain had begun falling. Directing his gaze towards the sky, he silently wondered. Was it her? Was she up there right now, crying? Shaking his head, he mentally berated himself for even thinking such foolish thoughts. Never in all his years of knowing her had he witnessed her shed even one tear. She hadn’t cried in life, why would she cry in death? She wouldn’t, and neither would he. The rain kept coming, starting as a light drizzle at first, softly caressing his soul before turning into a murderous downfall of water, trying to desperately drown his entire being. Standing there, soaking wet, he couldn’t help but wonder, that if she wasn’t crying, then who was? The answer dawned on him as he continued to stand there, embracing the falling teardrops. How could he have been so blind? Then again, according to her, he always was a bit of a blind fool, unable to see what was right in front of him. He let out a lifeless smile, so morose that it shouldn’t have been considered a smile. No one up there was crying. Instead, the rain was made up of unshed tears, his unshed tears. He could never really cry… They cried because he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Why would he? He didn’t cry. Not for her or anyone. So why would he cry? He wouldn’t. … He made it rain instead because she was worth it… March 15 Pen Vs Pencil.Friday afternoon at Joseph Middle School had arrived, and finally, the last classroom turned out its lights and the door was shut, leaving behind a dark, empty Science room. Or, empty, so it seemed… “What are you looking at?!” spat a deep, rich voice from one of the desks. One of the students, Barbara, had neglected her two writing utensils. A pen and a pencil, lying side by side, though not peacefully. “Shut up! Stupid ballpoint pen! I am so completely better than you!” Pencil shot back at the black figure next to it. “What makes you say that? I am used just as much as you are!” the ballpoint pen answered, “If not more!!” he added nastily. “Yeah right! Think of the school kids that come here. Most of them use me!! Besides, some teachers, such as Math ones, don’t allow pens to be used. But we, on the other hand, are never banned. We are always welcome! Plus, people like us because their mistakes can be erased!” Pencil made a terrific point. “So what?! People like us because our writing doesn’t fade over time. And we don’t have to constantly be sharpened.” “Whatever! People chew on you pens - yuck!! But we pencils aren’t as likely to be chewed on. We stay clean and dry for the most part, thank you very much!” “Excellent point,” ballpoint pen considered, “on my behalf, though! People chew on pens because they love us. Nobody really loves a pencil. But us, pens…people can become quite attached to us. And who could blame them?! We don’t shrink like you stupid pencils—we stay the same size all of our lives!” Pencil frowned, annoyed. He couldn’t take it any longer. He rolled over, and pushed ballpoint pen until his enemy tumbled off the edge and landed with a tiny, barely audible sound onto the floor below. “Take that, ballpoint pen!” he hollered, remarkably satisfied with his unplanned action. “I’m sorry!” a squeak came, “I was wrong! You are better…oh…it’s freezing down here!” “You’re really, positively sorry?” “Yeah, absolutely.” “Okay, then.” Pencil rolled over himself, taking the leap down to the dusty floor in order to join the pen in the coldness. “Now that you’re down here…” ballpoint pen drawled slyly, “I’m not sorry!!” “What?!” Pencil exclaimed, “Why, I ought a…” ----------------------------- Next time, another story! Until then! Rock On! :) |
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