To the enlightened,
Peace.
A fleeting dream lost in inference,
a shattered hope pieced together by intuition.
I gather cold coins and sixpence,
for a league away, bittersweet, scraping fruition.
I watched the heavy clouds since I was young,
but what would they say, what toxin do they speak?
Vain raindrops beautifully molded and flung,
only to be destroyed, spread and lost at their peak.
And for this I would stand and collect the raindrops,
before they dried away in the searing sun.
Another futile effort left to be, and in vain, to drop.
Another battle to be lost, and none yet to be won.
For this, for futility I grasped anything that fell in my hand.
This world disappinted me, I found solace in other worlds,
thus when there were no worlds left to cease demand,
I created new worlds, new fantasies to fathom and lose.
---
Fear became loss. Loss of the mountains and oceans I created.
To lose, to forget, and to reveal, fear became real.
And for every second that I held them inside, beleagured and berated,
I hid them deeper, forever kept within a tightly bound seal.
And for the first time in my life, I felt fear,
as I splattered my worlds onto thin pieces of parchment and lined paper.
Riddled with ink, the words and letters were dear,
still within me, an illusion of sanctioned synergy...
And for a moment, an instant, I felt it again, as I let go of my worlds, as they grew and evolved on the paper, I felt sweet fear.
---
Time passed again, but nothing changed. I had lost my fear, in exchange for poetry.
Ink and emotions flowed away as if it was just another chore; blatant, monotonous symmetry.
Within deep thoughts I found shallow ground, still it swallowed me whole.
My hands burned, but I did not wince. No feeling, no pain, as I touched my soul.
Perhaps it was too cold.
Perhaps it did not burn at all.
But as the wind wordlessly sped through grass and stone, I did not stop.
Writing meaningful fantasies, sprawled with meaningless words that fell apart like raindrops.
The raindrops, I could not catch. Once again I struggled to piece them together in vain.
And once again below the heavy, toxic clouds, I disputed whether or not I should feel pain.
It dissembled into shambles, still held together loosely in poor synergy.
And still I held a shattered sense of unwanted, accursed sanity.
---
Perhaps words were meant to betray me, for every thought that entered my mind had been thought before.
I found fortitude in blank strokes of lead and graphite, pulled together aimlessly into beautifully, something more.
Undisputed mistakes and fallacies would bend together into a grey depiction composed of error, sitting idly utterly still,
And with a step back it pieced together from the shambles, into, ironically, a work of art, now chilling and shrill.
Each new series of mistaken strokes became masterpieces, faster and faster until my strokes became perfect,
But these perfectly executed strokes, masteres and practiced for months and months, only flew together in defect.
---
Yet again, in utter ruin, I could not create worlds any longer.
My hands were too trained, and my words could not ponder.
Ages passed, all I could do was admire the brooding aether,
As it slipped away with the grey clouds in its wake and sough.
The raindrops plummetted to the earth, once again, in tragic vain,
Splattering, lost in pyrrhic victory, against the cold, lifeless windowpane.
I did not bother to catch them.
---Yours truly, Deathless
