Meaning

In pursuing a career he wanted to be that whom inspired him, she wrote. “So he decided to be, and then thus he became.” But in the words of his father, of late has taken illness, he could not understand why his own kind would not be that of his own kindred blood which by forsaken creed had suddenly consumed him. This sickly blood, she added, suddenly became an illness; the fatigue was too great. All was lost.

There he walked, in a mountain fought, and slowly climbed. Then he shrugged. Then he sobbed. It all seemed too much, all at once. He is no mountaineer, but he simply wants to climb a mountain. He was no man, but he hopes one day to become a man. This much, his mother wrote to her sister, who since recently was under a great melancholy for ill choices she made that could never be reversed. “Oh! I am sorry for all I’ve done! The men, the wine, and all the tricks I’ve endured. It was not to be.” Though, her brother might add that he would not want to be deserted by a woman just like his sister; but perhaps to be imbued with new wisdom as to how to live with one.

Near the mountain peek, gossip for months soon called at bay. For months, our dear fellow climbed a metre closer to the tip; as much as each day his mind felled closer to the dip. It was like he wanted to break himself so that each piece can be collected overtime then brought together with each piece part of a new image that formed the basis of his own. Though the pieces have not changed, though the image has changed, the very essence upon which these images carry is now part of something greater. That greater essence became his meaning. It became his life. In essence, his life is the sum of why. Life no longer ceased meaning; it augmented the story.

His mother closes the letter with a solemn wish that once her son reaches the tip of a mountain he may at least come down and never return to the tip. “For what it is the base without its peaking stone?” He would ask. So casually it was, but she could not even answer, for she has never travelled the heights he would. Sooner or later, he would know the answer and once he does, he would have part of the meaning he needed to live.

At the station

A bench lay hollow in the utmost sphere,

Who knew but could not be at its dear,

Nor mail would drive it to the yesteryear,

So turn a callous cage whom thwart to greater fear,

But not said much luck in hope the guy does sit,

And leaving whence to board new lamps lit,

Though he ought and this he must ought

To dampen all spirits will tears cold be brought;

No tears are warm when the fire burns bright,

And here we hold man in mind to heart distraught

So soon he breaks to dark and sorrow down,

In all smiles and memory he could only frown,

Last his train had come board his life aways,

But could not hear nor see the other at bay,

This man whose drunken stupor is all but ways,

Found himself poking words sans base decry,

So some attention be brought to he his mum deny,

But could not! Couldn’t hear nor see. All lost.

Lost was the drunkard in fate’s lasting capture,

His words now critique the man in rupture,

With every second the death of he and he arrived,

But it was not his ego when last rest survived,

So finally that train went and the last another,

Age was brought much the crickets to bother,

So doors be opened, more people at large,

A first glance he took and all now is barge,

Then he boards the train and sits a while,

Nor legal weep and plead naive shall be vile,

For the train is gone and how fast it travels,

The lamps dimmer and soon his life unravels.

Our Dearest Sirens

In forms of sweet music ye now lament,
A cry so loud no ear ere he meant,
Nor eyes to stare lest heart be bled;
I’ll blind myself a thousand nor dread
Sight itself than mine which soars ahead.
But, fate by chance has these shores she led,
But ghastly I hear these beings cast me way,
Nor sorrow in dark phantasm am I bought to sway,
In littered puss that gauge mine eyes to sweat,
These burning tears come hemlock taste so let;
No matter how far your cries can tear me scorn,
No decibels of sound can replace my soul in mourn
With hands I bind, with feet I bind upon this pole,
Nor shall I permit thee Heathen to bound my pole
With lewd advances that mine alone shall this be sought,
Whether free nor enslaved by magic cool so thought
Bore me is here the bitter tale of pain so known,
Now fright my men away and in horny gaze ye thrown
Is in little past my woman who in man art to give,
Now bitterly spoke of this cure I decline to live
And make do with what time I have for time allowed,
So that when the time comes so am I too so loud,
That when whispers befall me all misery and sexed
Then I look back: my journey ahead is not so vexed.

When you’re alone

Is steadfast but haste to make,
In mute but bird is sung heart,
Nor better is walking this day ought,
For brew in beer and sung in wine is day,
Little by little, hopes and dreams unfold,
Some day, there was a wild boar to chase
That never ended with hearts unfold; so
Take this time to grieve the loss of dread,
So fear the loss of utmost dread, and never
Call the heathens that bake your soul today.
I call myself alone because I am a heathen,
I am a murderer of my own soul who begs mercy,
Thinking back at all the life I could have had,
At some point in childhood I remember saying no,
And some point I remember knowing what I didn’t,
But looking at the stars I can see a light:
The Universe is enveloped in the womb of darkness,
When all is woe, when all is without hope, know that
All that comes out of the darkness becomes existence;
For you are existence, and your lonely is a reality.
When your story ends on the final note with no remorse,
That alone has more value than a copy of the original.
When it is time to say goodbye, remember the story.

False Righteous

She swore to life for virtuous gain,
Even to mean all her joy ought be slain,
As task she held standards unmatched,
So uses them now for new treks unscathed;
As a child she was once as any other,
Though hardships then had come to bother
A once childish spirit for play disrupt,
Nor sooner she resigned to Virtue abrupt,
Then once she saw another as child once known,
She at once talks of hard play at life be thrown,
Not that she got none in life, but merely sought
In love for one she herself a fish so caught,
Hither and thither she untangles ink from page,
Reading of philosophy and science from a cage,
Dreams of freedom and abundance in Eden place,
Yet could not resolve herself in this time of place,
She eats wholesome; she drinks by the whole,
And so she brands those who can’t be up her hole,
And so she condescends those who can’t live hers,
Thus, she is alone; and so all to her is at errs,
This is the life of righteousness she wants to lead,
But in all her glory, she has never learned to seed.

*

Let all in sight succumb at bay,
Whom no air can wrest this day,
Hearts be wrung in strings of gold
Nor tighter than belts y’soul to hold,
Nor looser than fabric start to bend,
Ere lingering dread is but foe to fend,
And the weeks soon fall on day, night,
And years whistle with truth too right,
Who knew all along what action take,
But could not think which step to fake,
So sat are the ones who dream too big,
So forget Adam and Eve their taste of fig,
On whose glory came God’s demise,
On whose exile came more to rise,
Yet what they feared is what they sought,
If it could not have been, then it was nought,
They did it well and so others shall sway,
If one can fight back, more shall lead the way.

Moving Faster

For it was not the leaves who asked faster,
No. They joked with time in little passing,
Did I ask for my life to be taken away?
Should I give myself to time for better life?
Let God decide where my road falls short to fall,
So never find me weeping in a mess to know,
The art is gastric so my stomach shall implode to sink,
The mink I wore is now simple and plain. As am I.
>Now I see my clones walking around, dancing like bots;
Now, they’re the real me. I am a shade of code to compile,
If not my soul, then least my logic shall least decompile,
Nor never have I sung the words divine, in heavens soon
So divine. But I lack the love to hurt me more to live,
For I never sought the one to challenge me lest I the same,
Now give me grief I had no adventure to survive,
If I were dead now, I will be awoken now to danger revive.