Au revoir, à mon coeur et à mon âme

Walking pathways of death as respectful as one is able,

You find an occasional numb in the midst of being overwhelmed or unknowing of what to do and how to feel.

Faces of those who might know the area as home are illumined and regarded,

Faces of those visiting are studied as well out of curiosity,

And then those who are seeking a new home in this unfamiliar land;

They are the ones who you do your best to assure they have been seen,

While the world may seemingly pass them by.

In a world on edge,

Below ground can be a place to find peace.

When walking caverns that have become hallowed halls of history,

A certain stillness is found even when actively observing your surroundings;

knowing you’ve temporarily escaped the chaos and noise of society above.

In refining one’s self, you find that you also lose pieces of your “self”;

It makes you wonder if it’ll all be worthwhile,

or if it will be just another phase or season.

Something meant for a scrapbook rather than a defining step forward as a human,

Compulsion rather than immersion.

My critical eyes have been poked many times over,

But I believe the time has come to gouge them out.

For I’d rather gain knowledge blindly and objectively,

then have the privilege of sight but also the handicap of unneeded critique.

With bones dislocated, emotions suppressed or dead, and a mind rather empty;

What good would I pose as just another spoon fed oaf?

As I prepare to leave,

I don’t have a final destination.

As the mirror reflects a face that is familiar,

I don’t immediately acknowledge it as my own.

Maybe a shadow of someone I knew,

Or someone I’d rather forget I met.

Just a sketch of someone or something,

From a place no longer existent.

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Misunderstanding Guaranteed

 

One hand open and the other closed in a fist,

Offensively prepared in order to defend.

Straightened out after almost dying,

But why does it have to be that mortality is the only reason to try and make sense?

 

I’m amazed at what my eyes have seen,

But all the more amazed at how limited I am in perspective and insight.

My trust is much like when I try to hold your hand,

Strained at best; painful and unsure, uneasily making an effort for something desired and also frightening.

Cold winds have become a pleasure in this life with almost constant muscle pain;

While the stiffness is enhanced, it reminds me of the privilege is to be alive.

Humanity is a strange activity more often than not,

The closer you come to dying;

You may end up feeling more alive.

 

Walking a sidewalk is more akin to swimming in a sea of misinterpretation,

Surrounded by floundering intentions and emotions.

Masked attendants stand at corners waiting to cross the street,

When they can’t even understand how to interact with another human being.

Any questions?

Don’t expect an answer.

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Dream Verse

Whirling guitars remind me of my thought pattern throughout the week,

As the drums remind me of my changing heart beat.

Once believed to be tone deaf,

No longer am I bereft.

 

Listening to the sounds of a darkened dream,

So inspiring yet startling.

It somewhat reminds me of being a child gripped by fear,

Captivated with fright and excitement all at once.

Loud are the screams,

Until the calm of the storm comes.

Washing me clean,

In the tide of slowly picked strings.

 

The howl of a wondrous heart,

A voice meant to be heard.

Words that pierce the heart,

Not out of hostility

but in an effort to remain.

 

New songs are the hope,

From this startling dream that seems to be a possible reality.

Now my only question is this;

Am I truly awake or lucidly dreaming in the midst of sleep?