When all the tangled mess in ones life can so easily be such flawless, effortless side effect of years of living, I’m sure as hell, God has a mansion house right next to hell, the creative studio of His, where He is tirelessly busy, crafting the miserable shit, and polishing the edges of the flaws He wishes to plant in the baby that’s going to be born in some remote region of the world where the child lives in yet another carefully crafted sandbox of His, where He intends to test how accurate, and smooth He polished the edges of the flaws, and if they’re smooth enough to let the child glide off the edges of life, before even beginning to crawl.
When He likes to watch a slightly longer vanity show of His shitty creative craft, while He has in His mansion house His comrades, who indulge in lavishing their praises at Him, that He lets the child live a while longer, pauses the madman show while the child is growing up and His comrades take a break having laughed their asses off, and plays it from where it was left, and then brings on the wrath of His craft.
Asshole. Right, that’s me, I can’t fathom any of this.
I think about it, and with a little effort, I’m sure as hell I’d know who that healthy passenger or crew member is, that had ham or green peas and farted into the beautiful sky while at an altitude of 20 thousand foot. I can even tell if it was just ham or just green peas that (s)he had, or both, also in which order and quantity, if at all (s)he had both. I can as well tell if it was a group farting in ultimate unison. But for the life of me, I don’t know why I cry sometimes for no particular reason. Is it due to malfunctioned hyperosmia that affected my brain, and half way through impacting my nose forgot to do so, and left me with melancholia?
I wonder what you seek in those
lone wanderers you come across
as you take rounds
gazing all the way into the
dark corners of their hearts
that lit up by the brilliance of your beauty
as they reclaim, and reveal theirs
to their forgotten selves;
beauty that lasts for moments as they
lose themselves to you in
moments that’re willfully vulnerable,
and full of love they seek;
the same love they once were fortunate enough
to have received,
or have had the greater luck of finding one who could
find meaning in the love that was given.
Is that what you seek, too,
you lone wanderer?
“Who would I tell how much it hurts
watching the branches go bare
as they let go of the leaves that they
once held so dear, so tight,
and I’m to be labelled
‘The Fall, that finds its glory in the leaves falling dead.’
while, I, indeed, am among the fallen leaves that lie lifeless,
hoping they rise them from dead,
for one last time, just so I can
tell them that it was the
very breeze that once taught them to
swing, and dance, and fly;
left, and right, up, and down;
and the very tree that cared, and held them
from falling, are the ones that abandoned
and took their lives, watched them die,
threw them dead to ground,
and that I’m just a scapegoat
they are accustomed to..
year after year, every year..”`,
weeps “The Fall” into a man
walking on the yellow leaves
lying all over, beautiful even in death,
turning their graveyard underneath into a serene sight.
“Hate me not, for you only deserve to watch me tangible.
The closer you’re to hold me dear, the hazier I get.”,
says the morning cloud in its surreal despair.
“Have faith in me,
despite I hold you from finding purpose in me.”,
says the lost emotion, living inside me.