Here's a little poem I found lodged in between a set of old history textbooks on my bookshelf. Comments and Critique welcome, flamers and haters are not
Dreams
As he picked up his tattered genius and dusted himself off,
he felt oddly alone, insignificant, guilty of some moral fault,
in his own minute existence.
One so blemished, so unprepared, and thankless as he to be blessed
with such clever gifts. To hold the sun and the moon in either hand, the power of the Gods at his feet.
The will to power, but the hopelessness of life, a teardrop in the oceans of this vast water wasteland. Floating like a speack of dust on the morning breeze.
How art the wise man divided between enlightenment and madness. Choosing to live to die, or dying to discover that nothing lies beyond.
No promised land, complete with harmony and peace. No great divide between saved and tarnished souls. Nothing. Absolute infinity of emptiness. No sounds, no light, no breath, no thought. A spiral staircase of doom, longer than a million old wives tales, and colder than the mother of an abandoned child.
Rich with velvety blackness, enough to mute the sun in a single glance. A thousand dreadful wars muffled in it's grasp.
How ironic was it for he to be blessed with so much, for so little, only to meet nothing in the end. An entire world to yourself, but with no one to share a multitude of material wants, of wealth, and power, and status and greed.
All vanish upon the coming of the dawn. For dreams can be uplifting, or dreams can be cruel.
So, once again, kinda random poem about when I was trying to come to terms with an old friend's system of values and beliefs and all those shaninigans. It was an attempt to make me see clearer, and I suppose it did. Hope you liked some of it at least
