The elusive truths of a questioned reality,
Real and unreal are now one.
Poisoned by two versions of the same story,
Blending perspectives, contradicting visions.
How long must this continue?
Consumed or apathetic, their is no antidote.
What is this feeling I can’t quite comprehend?
A melancholic sadness without a joyous end
Sorrowful acceptance of the way things were
Understanding that it’ll never quite be
A relief of future pains not dealt,
Yet mourning future pains not felt.
Must move on,
But I shall,
A mere partial farewell.
This is no end,
A simple hurdle.
Or the inevitable curdle.
Changing styles for changing times,
Proof that nothing stays the same.
Even though this is my current chosen medium,
Metre, rhyme and verse, are lame.
When you’re put in a life threatening situation and your survival instincts kick in, you know you’re not ready to die..
He strolled along the precipice, gazing into the blackness that would one day consume him. He looks away back to the reality he abhors, back to looking at the ground, away from judging eyes. He never quite knew why he couldn’t look into their eyes, whether it was the fear of being judged or the fear of seeing their emotions, empathising with them, seeing all their pains and tragedies. He had enough of those, he didn’t need more. “Why don’t I just fall? Let it consume me. What is this force that keeps me going? It would be so much easier.” He wondered, taking comfort in his inevitable demise, his inevitable plummet into the depths of his own darkness. He walked home hoping a tragedy would befall him, every corner a new hopeful danger, removing him from his responsibilities, the responsibilities of being the harbinger of his own end. He arrives home safely, “Not today.”
My boats have set sail
Travelled to different lands and new harbours
She is empty again, I feel her pain
Do I maintain my harbour for new arrivals?
Cut the old mooring lines, the ties that bind
Let my battered, green, lichen covered harbour rest
Join her sunken memories in a shallow grave
Let her old stone sink
But what would I be without a harbour or boats to fill it?
A Harbourless Master, master no more.
The Harbour Master had many boats in his harbour, some old and reliable, some new and shiny, some broken and tattered but either way he loved and cared for them all. Most eventually sail away and find a new harbour but those few that never leave and never will, well, they were special. His harbour was nearly in ruin but he held it together with bits of old mooring lines from boats that left and ships that sank like scars of the past, memories committed to the shallow waters, just under the surface, warped and never quite forgotten. Although the harbour was nothing to look at the boats were in good hands, the Harbour Master kept them close in stormy weather, stopped them from floating away into uncertain waters and patched them up best he could when they got damaged, usually by bigger careless boats. Some of the Harbour Master’s boats were too damaged and beyond his help, he learned that sometimes it’s best to let some boats go and set them adrift, hoping they will find their way instead of staying lost at sea. One thing he knew for certain, his inevitable end, that caring for all these boats, giving all he has in his tattered harbour, he will be the one to eventually sink.
Raised like cattle,
Calves educated to a minimum,
Economic assets of the land owning elite.
Free Range is an illusion,
You just have bigger cages.
Fat compliant pigs blinded by greed,
Shovelling in feed from their trough.
The Orwellian nightmare is here,
A global Animal Farm.