Thursday, November 27, 2014

Everything is to be forgotten

On a melancholy morrow,
It dawns upon the painted houses
And stray streets, as a weak reverie
Does on tiny mountain streams.

Words are shred, and the eyelids droop,
As the spell catches on much like a cold.
A fear slices the strained muscles to give away,
That hope of better, of the best,
As you dreamt when you were a child, no less.

And they say grow up, and you try,
But there is that you, who just won't be tied.
He seeks, he craves, lead by instincts
Much older, and warmer to the human heart,
Of spirits not bottled up or stored away
In an abandoned memory box.

There is nowhere to hide, and like
A rat you lay trapped, and the sticks prod
If you do stay in abandon- they want a race,
A race down a stickler path,
Apt-suited for those of cliches,
A trope, a tribe, tremulous snipes,
Whose currency makes home a house
Of packed cards- and all else gambled apart.

You witness, you bear,
The tides of alias faith,
And those of a kind, massacre,
Debase, while those of perseverance
Struggle against supposed fates.

But, all is of man, and he is of the worlds;
The verses is all there is as solace.
The rivers shall shred the hills,
And humanity shall prevail,
Not as the fittest or the frail,
But as fossils of its own image.

Memory is short,
While the world is infinite,
The paths transient,
And everything is to be forgotten.

The light shines the brightest

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