Lonely Patron

Forgive me if I struggle to forget
A happy memory, not distant yet.
Who’s traced so far the footsteps of your heart,
And wandered past where I might dream to start.
Send me to your lily speckled river,
Where your past lovers sip your apathy,
So I may be among sleepless beggars;
Cursed souls who know the lips that taste so sweet.
Send me to your frozen, starlit desert,
Where the carrion escapes the weather
And clings to the bones of its frigid home,
While frozen hearts drink deep its dying moans.
Though, please, spare me your petty victory,
Your bitter hunger for my jealousy,
Your shallow thirst for yet another’s words,
Who too shall fall, too soon, where mine fell first.
I know your malice is no less than pain,
Or the stings in my chest land less than rain,
I know your course, no less than loneliness,
Finds true, its mark, this heart that I detest.
Oh, you siren, your ballads of violence,
Sing it again, and again, til’ death gifts me silence
Sing it again, until blood finds its vibrance.
Sing, you pretty fool, sing to the islands.

Fair Sprout

Must I pretend to be a fool for you;
Blinded to such violent truths in your eyes?
O’ shall I set free thee, starving accused,
To wander down alleys, ensconced by time?

Should we gasp for the air, so sweet, so pure.
Should we swallow our doubts, so few, so rare.
Should we not be awake, to see the cure?
Should we not be free on this day so fair?

The trees are yet to bloom, but yet too soon,
Will the birds sing their prayers of warmth and play.
My soul is yet to wake, beneath this moon,
As clouds belittle thee, my sun, my day.

Promise not to burn my frail eyes, my dear.
Our vows shall not be writ in ink or fear.

Pulp Dream

I wish I could break myself down
into simple blocks.
I could see which pieces were deformed.
I could finally understand what was broken.

I wish all the people walking around would shatter
into piles of parts.
I could sift through them and see
if we were made of the same things.
I could finally know if I was as alone as I feel.

I wish this uniform world would compress
into neat, little cubes.
I could pick them up, study all six sides, and find where I end
and the rest begins.
I could finally paint a picture of my place in the world.

These clean divisions are never born.
All the thin lines I’ve drawn have been torn,
twisted, cut, decayed, burnt, returned, and reformed.
Vines grow through the mortar.
Every attempt finds disorder.
Flesh stripped
raw, it slips,
as I try to climb a border
that doesn’t even exist.

Purpose

When we’re lost without purpose, days seem to go by without seams. There is nothing separating one purposeless day from the next. It’s the common theme of the search that makes it so hard to create a division. In a sense, the search for purpose can be said as our purpose, but I don’t think I need to explain that the search for purpose is not actually a purpose. How could the search for something be the thing. It doesn’t make any sense, but still we search and still we feel occupied by this “purpose”. That is when the trouble begins; when we realize that our search is not fulfilling.

If I were to be fatalistic, I would say that there is no purpose to be found, but that’s not entirely true. It’s simply the manner of acquiring purpose that has caused such distress. Purpose is not to be found, but to be created. I’m no scholar of consciousness, but I do understand that I must indeed separate my consciousness from physical reality, in order to create something new. If all I ever do is use my consciousness as a tool to interact with my waking world, I will never be able to imagine anything that doesn’t already exist here.

If all we ever do is use our consciousness to reference a tree, it will forever remain a tree. There is no purpose in a tree, besides the trees own purpose. But I’m not in the business of creating oxygen and providing habitats for small animals. I want my own purpose. What we must do is use our consciousness to separate ourselves from the physical reality of the tree, in order to imagine what the tree might become. Perhaps, the tree will shake suddenly, the earth will fracture and cracked, wooden legs will burst forth from the explosion of soil and the tree will simply walk away. It’s an entertaining fantasy, but now we have a tree wandering as aimlessly as we do during these days without purpose.

What if I imagined the tree as a pile of wooden logs nested next to a home, ready to stoke the hearth and hearts of the occupants? It is winter, so it would seem a good idea to have firewood ready. This is a slight glimpse of the ever evasive concept of purpose. There is none to be given, but an infinite amount to be created. However, there is a fatal mistake to be made here; that would be assuming that one’s own purpose is now to cut down the tree, saw it into stumps, split them into logs, and stack them against the home. This is not your purpose, if you are the one to take on this task. This is the task.

The purpose would be warming the home so that the beauty of the human spirit may sit comfortably around a fire and commune with other souls seeking warmth. It’s dangerous to assume one is an automaton and that tasks are the same as purpose. We are humans, not machines. Our purpose is never so shallow and we will not find it floating among the falling leaves. Our purpose is communal and poetic; we are greater than the sum of our whole.