Thoughts on morrow winds that never blow
Thinking. Trapped in the soliloquy of the soul, where the world doesn't turn and the day won't change, and the night sheds itself only to reveal more night. Sorrow, deep like a chasm, dark as the doorstep of death - singing songs of melancholy to the souls that come to so quietly.
Daydreamer, dead in the grave. Hopeful wisher, wishing well gone dry. Thinking trapped in thoughts of nothingness, and ideas of the future going awry. Concepts of light where the shadows fall. Concepts of life where the dragged dreams fall. Concepts of hope where the listless all call.
Tears, shed for the misery of it all; and deserts dry filling up the 'scape between there and here - between mine and yours. Between yes and no.
Daybreak and nightfall. Right and or wrong. Creation and destruction - all trapped in the picture frames on the immortal hall, where the little children come home to play. Each in its place and each, its dust to lay; a thousand years gone by - and still the world looks the same.
Fear feeding millions, mouths starving by the second. Souls withering and blowing away as the wind takes its charge in the backlands. But here in the frontlands, here on the warm places - here in the right ways with the right faces - beaucracy fails and fails again.
Strings are tied, and strings begin to break. Yarn unravels from the head, seams break - and the tattered linen falls. Unshapen, undone. The world pieces itself together. But it cannot hold.
Unconventional conventions. Thoughts strung together on a christmas tree, where little angels sit with candles and sing. True deceit of the blind generations, wayfared paths, all walked along by them. Underbrush and overbrush. Overgrow and underpass. Wisp of vision and the way back to the house.
Filth over the covers and dust sitting still on the shutters. Shuddering from within and shivers on without - without a trace of lifeline left, without a trace of living left. Without a trace of life or death, the world continues on.
Intentional conceptions and prelaid perforations and the light down the hall in a town of proliferation - where the elders sit on boxcar racers and the soapbox goes unwashed.
Betrayal. Bearance and forebearance. Underhandedness and overhead-edness. Wiffel throught bright lights and a stroll through the old forest, where the faeries still alight the trees at night.
Trust as the most valuable asset. Truth, the most careful acid. Pathbending and pathfinding - tredding down old roads when new ones are not found. Trodding over the dirt and dust - the children and their mothers, all trapped in the societal mud, calling calling calling for some new way of escape.
There, end writes beginning. There story tells old tales and old men remember themselves and little girls dance with flowers in their hair, once again. There, end becomes the telling and the storm begets the felling and the wind forgoes the blowing, and the rain forebears the falling. Then will the story be said. Then will the tale be told. Then will time itself , and all of us, grow old and dead.
-RK
Daydreamer, dead in the grave. Hopeful wisher, wishing well gone dry. Thinking trapped in thoughts of nothingness, and ideas of the future going awry. Concepts of light where the shadows fall. Concepts of life where the dragged dreams fall. Concepts of hope where the listless all call.
Tears, shed for the misery of it all; and deserts dry filling up the 'scape between there and here - between mine and yours. Between yes and no.
Daybreak and nightfall. Right and or wrong. Creation and destruction - all trapped in the picture frames on the immortal hall, where the little children come home to play. Each in its place and each, its dust to lay; a thousand years gone by - and still the world looks the same.
Fear feeding millions, mouths starving by the second. Souls withering and blowing away as the wind takes its charge in the backlands. But here in the frontlands, here on the warm places - here in the right ways with the right faces - beaucracy fails and fails again.
Strings are tied, and strings begin to break. Yarn unravels from the head, seams break - and the tattered linen falls. Unshapen, undone. The world pieces itself together. But it cannot hold.
Unconventional conventions. Thoughts strung together on a christmas tree, where little angels sit with candles and sing. True deceit of the blind generations, wayfared paths, all walked along by them. Underbrush and overbrush. Overgrow and underpass. Wisp of vision and the way back to the house.
Filth over the covers and dust sitting still on the shutters. Shuddering from within and shivers on without - without a trace of lifeline left, without a trace of living left. Without a trace of life or death, the world continues on.
Intentional conceptions and prelaid perforations and the light down the hall in a town of proliferation - where the elders sit on boxcar racers and the soapbox goes unwashed.
Betrayal. Bearance and forebearance. Underhandedness and overhead-edness. Wiffel throught bright lights and a stroll through the old forest, where the faeries still alight the trees at night.
Trust as the most valuable asset. Truth, the most careful acid. Pathbending and pathfinding - tredding down old roads when new ones are not found. Trodding over the dirt and dust - the children and their mothers, all trapped in the societal mud, calling calling calling for some new way of escape.
There, end writes beginning. There story tells old tales and old men remember themselves and little girls dance with flowers in their hair, once again. There, end becomes the telling and the storm begets the felling and the wind forgoes the blowing, and the rain forebears the falling. Then will the story be said. Then will the tale be told. Then will time itself , and all of us, grow old and dead.
-RK
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