Posted: March 6, 2016 in Melancholia


Dying of thirst…

Writing against the tides,
Scratching my pen on a writer’s block.

A beat up heart in its final throes
A leader turns his back unperturbed
The blood of his people map the pavement.
A black flower dying of thirst will drink
Tired of waiting for the sun to peak
We bloom in the dark, flourish in the black.

This Trojan we court will bring us our end.
They kill us in the name of a God we share
As the world stands agape lost in its glare.
A thousand clicks from here, they scream
The world awoke to see humanity lose a piece of itself.

Do we look away in spite of ourselves?
Are we apart from the pain?
If terror speaks loud and clear, why not let your voice be heard?
Am I just another poet playing rhetoric?
I confuse myself sometimes.

Desultory thoughts hang on pendulums that will not swing.
You can hear the bells though,
Marriages are marriages, rings are just rings.
Why then do we wear more colors than the rainbow?
Hold more flowers than a bouquet and mortgage freedom with a tiny ring?

Because man finds meaning in symbols and happiness in promises.
Man is a bridge too short to realize that beneath him is a stream.
To this end, the pendulums may never sing
What good is it to long for hearing when the silence deafens?

Dying of thirst…
A nightingale attempts to pitch,
What a fool, don’t you know the world is tone deaf?
In a world of misfits, the puzzle is forever incomplete.
So we swarm together, oblivious of these walls.
We swarm together like Bees in an Anthill.

The Aventurine.

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