Depression sets in
a blanket of smog
smothering
growling and howling
like a pack of wolves
out on the hunt.
It preys on minds
It feeds on embers
blown into
raging flames
out of control
as it devours
mind, heart, and life
slinks back
into a hole
waiting for second coming
I sat by the window watching the people walk by.
The summer breeze blew through the open window, and you
Sat with your one hand rested on your teacup,
The other gripping the book held so closely to your face.
I tried to write but the words refused to come,
And my paper remained bare.
I drank my coffee, and watched you read…
And now that we no longer walk to Bridgehead and spend our days in
the sunlit cafe,
I think back to our days in Westboro,
And it helps me fill my pages with words of love, sadness, despair…
And hope to return one day.
If whereabouts are not known
To parents, they are disturbed
For sure, for the sheer certain
Awareness that ignorance could
Anywhere in a lurch leave them,
Crying in despair over a loss
Only knowledge firm and clear
Would save from running into,
Despite very keenly their granting
In degrees freedom to their children
To let them taste of all the sweetness
And partake of all the light and mirth
That those really free in full measure
Are only able to savour in joy without
Breaks that are so sure for the careless,
That in deliberate ways they ignore knowing
Never how costly it is to lie to the self on
Results of self-willed amnesia at the hour
Of danger and death or dishonour dark.
People who are happy all the time
Are a pain in my butt
I relate to moody and irritable specimens like myself
Who have to create out of despair towards the middle
Maybe that’s why I wear so much black
It matches my monochromatic moods
Looks smashing cool and keeps those shiny people in check
I love being me, brooding sulky and beautiful
The D.J. On The Radio Is Chatter From A Marionette’s KnotHole
With The Chronologic Of Sweetened Tea And A Wallet’s Leathery
Despair,
A Glass Cougar In A Tree With The Signals Bristleing His Whiskers,
One Slip Of The Tongue Could Dissolve The Articulated Illusion,
His Broadcast Of PreOrdinance And Its SoundTrack To Better Living
Through A Guarded Royal Arch Leading To His BackYard Dynasty,
To Roosts Where His Dogs Sit To Keep The Grass From Getting
Sun-Burnt,
His Sonic Stutter To Shelter The HomeLess Muse For Her Green Men,
A Performance In Monotone With Slight Accentuation On Trigger Words
Produceing Egg-Layers To Twitch Their Heads While He Roams Freely On
The Wire…
…
Seeking Landing Strips In The Vista Of AirWaves And Condensation…
…
…
He Comes As The Spirit Of Sunday,
Cooling The Feral Brows Of Morning Sickness,
Easeing The Suffering Of Alcoholic Coal-Miners With His Waters,
He Has Risen From The Bread To Guide The Lost InTo Fields Of Heather,
Violet Vibrations From A Swaying-Bridgeing Trust Over The Friday
BeFore,
To A Saturday Of His Hand Tilting The Creamer InTo Cups In Saucers,
With Button Eyes And Stuffing For Friends Gathered Near,
Easter… After Easter… After Yesterday Has Been Slowed Down,
His Muttered Addition In ReVerb To Be As God To Lactation And
Imagination,
Just To Keep Peckers Loyal To His Tree.
More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca/2014/08/the-bread-also-rises.html.