Seven Poems for Introspection

A collection of Odd poems

for introspection and enjoyment

Dying Shadow Seeking Light for Substantial Manifestation



Dying

I take dying in strides,
quick and slow steps alike,
tiptoe, leap, stumble and glide.
Tear-stricken, exhausted,
cackling and vivacious inside.

Quiet demeanor, smirking lips,
hell-bent eyes and tuned judgment.
One single, fumbling ear
that lets slip and is amiss
to auditory remnants of
everyday bliss.

Tangled hair and smudged hands,
an inky arm, a flexed stand.
Shoulders back, open fists;
careless shrug and sighing lips.

Midnight skies and ghost kisses,
pallid expression, reverent reflection.
Regretful admittance, moon-high,
wide eyes, coffee breath, tone-deaf,
a little sleepy, a little to manifest
dreams before they come,
dance of the trees, quiver these
young bones and settle in
to the sound of this introspection
slamming, dead center.

Slump to sleep, washing off
old grief, zombie-groan and toss
the blanket over.
Turn, shift, settle in
to the sound of those thoughts
temporarily ending.

I take dying in strides,
quick and slow steps alike.


The sky was profound,
but even some thoughts cloud
the starry divine
from mortal sight.

My steps echoed in midnight,
a summer breeze, shiver delight.
Only my shadow to accompany
my restless head and tread.
A wan grin stitched on the lips.

But Shadow found a
weak step, and struck me then.
Engulfed me 'till I
felt I was not restless, but dead.
Stowed away my best thoughts,
and kept them in a shed.

An unending seam;
a ceaseless dream.
Wondering what
broken senses mean.
Sink into reverie,
and gasp just to be.
Think through eternity,
dying, and everything between.
Unending, it seems.

It was in the next twilight that I
saw Shadow in another light.
An angel, a valkyrie who
nobody sees. 
Beckoning me.

Timidly reaching out.
Coming upon past recollections passed,
memories illuminated again by the celestial,
kept best dressed in masks, false pretense.
I tore away their disguise,
only to find
mere thieves of the mind,
stealing away all the light.

So turned to Shadow again,
with a laugh and shake of my head.
The truest friend,
an angel and valkyrie who
will follow forever and again.

What more could I hope for
than a silent love as this?

And here I had been, wishing
to share this sky with another.
Share the beauty of the sky?
I think not.
Rather assuage the agony
of a confused fool.
Mask, dance, laugh, seduce and trance,
whatever it takes to distract
from the realization that
I misinterpret it all.

I had the idea of company all wrong.
Fixated on the notion,
not the meaning.
Like the object's exterior,
inferior to the symbol's superior
metaphor meant to brighten
a story and guide the mind
to fruition and self-contemplation. 

You see ...
The truest happiness
was only ever felt alone,
and has always been a refuge
from others and chaos and the world.
Done right, it's all that's necessary,
and without it,
our heart's a cemetery,
chasing soul after soul,
hoping to get caught in the throes
of irrational love
just to find meaning because
we gave ourselves none, or not enough. 

Alone, with Shadow,
is the truest bliss,
and my only home.

And I hope you find the same.
I hope, when you pull away
from a drunken kiss,
you stumble back to your bed,
you wake up the next morning,
hungover and dead,
you look in the mirror and you see,
none of this life has meaning,
if you cannot endure it alone,
if you cannot give it to yourself
intelligently, intuitively, and quite freely.
Anytime you feel like, really.


Never sleeping, only daydreaming.
Seldom talking, often thinking.
Commanding sentences, thread of senses.
Reflecting presence, eyes of lenses.

Pluck from a tree,
dead and flourishing leaves.
Brush against my cheek,
stem caught in teeth.
Just to kiss the inhuman;
just to feel a break from
the chaos of the mundane.

Reaching out with closed eyes,
a still body, a calm mind,
hoping to this feeling I'll succumb.
To liberate from this tiresome refrain:
the chaos of the mundane.

Despite doubt, I ...
Manage to find what I seek,
between sleep and daydreams.
An inspiration to hold,
nurture in a golden glow;
ignite, spark and burn,
twist n' boil 'till my thoughts churn.
Dizzyingly bright,
this light I sought, this light I find.
Nock, draw, and fire.

Nevertheless ... 
it is not mine. 


Exhilarating bliss, creating all this,
expression-dancing fingertips;
a thrill of escapism
in pages, pages, and pages.

Steady glow, heartbeat and stream,
blinking beneath the melody,
stitching more seams,
to help what blood runs hot in me.

Dark is the imagery,
fond of grotesque depictions
and perplexing paradoxes meant to infuse
actions without thought,
and words that could not
imbibe all the soul's drought.

Then, predictably unpredictable,
the wan light fades
into dawn's waxing age,
of hallow morning and day.
Awaiting that ironic spark of light,
that strength to recollect,
a glow consistently bright
often in the dead of night.

So succor ceases.
Left to my own pieces;
another story for the sepulcher,
I suppose, in sighs as I lay
another unmarked headstone
over the word-laden grave.

Damned, cursed, and thirsting.
For more light by which to create.


S.T.
Giving to a soul's fascination,
decidedly lustful obsession and craving
to observe a special other sinking into meaning,
coaxed by words I grow.

For whom and for what?
Relinquished, after much deliberation,
handed off, without consideration,
while enduring a duration
of agony in expectation.
Unable to contain the demon
leeching love from seeing
your eyes alight in delight
at the character's dancing plight
and plot strewn,
created with words wrought for you.

For whom and myself?
So childishly naïve to think
what I made was for me.
As if my soulful hunger was solely thunder
for lonely fixation on
an untamed inspiration.

For whom and what's even less?
Degradation of the self.
Searching for satisfaction in
your reaction, catching words and glances
just for a twitch, grimace or itch.
Anything, anything.

For whom and what else?
Simply, for you,
and for this.


Awaiting a day of understanding.
Calmly, my breath escapes,
looking forward to
a time that should ever come.
For a phantom's song unloved
in old prayers, left in layers,
of burial rites and chambers.
The long dead,
not forgotten, but instead,
just out of reach.
Their wisdom lost.
Frustratingly.

Soft exhalations taste
of diluted bitterness masked
as a kind of patience.
And drives my will,
bends my fingers to substantiate
the whispers of a soul too late,
stuck in a time
unfitting for its age.

Staying passed dawn
just to help thoughts spawn.
And let them slip
as fast as they flit.
A quick decision in fruition to
let cohesion become collision.
And chaos become the monotone,
monochrome I hope to know and sew.

If ever I created meaningfully,
it was in forgetting me.
Tearing off masks attached
by the very vein; a bloody display
of what it's like to die.
In the chair, above the white,
the ink a terrifying might
against deplorable ways
of the mind
trying to substantiate
the soul behind the eyes.

Forgive me, if ever I create
with the intent not to die.
Mortality's a condition,
not a curable affliction.
So let shades pass through me,
but never should I seek to live
beyond the date of my stone,
as I try to substantiate
the eyes of my soul.

Catch a crow's feather and smell
wild decadence and remember:
If the storm cackles, so may I.
If the clouds weep, so may I.
If the earth trembles, so may I.
If the stars erupt, so may I.
If the seasons change, so may I.
If the moon waxes and wanes, so may I.
If even love forgets, so may I.
And if all must fade, so can I.
So should I;

so must I.


Manifestation

Our thoughts flicker and twitch
our body to movement.
A playful trick, a cosmic game
to get us to lay
in surrender or thoughtfully take
what hell we've been made to create.

Understanding that to live is to die,
even behind such watchful eyes,
damned to miss
the meaning behind this. 
Then taste, so rarely, eternity's bare lips.

The subtle hues,
the silent hints and cues
let slip by way of distraction
from any true melody
meant to spur us
to passionate action.

And though we so wish
to live in harmony and bliss,
what really I think we crave
is chaos in shades,
cast in all colors for
the tremble of our shudders.

What a laugh, what a kick ...
to hold happiness' key,
but to feel we're seldom free.

So summon the spirit
of your inner vision and see;
take a gander, a walk with me,
at the seemingly dull yet profound
contradiction of your being in manifestation.

Steadily greying, learning, beating, aging.
Cast in the mirror, the ghost looking,
quite keenly, upon the seeping tears.
See the stealthy imp in you
turning all this askew.
What horror, to be this,
then that, one moment to next,
all while wearing the human's dress.
Wondering what to substantiate,
and who to manifest?

And such little time,
to act, to decide.
Always asking, never finding;
constantly hoping, always searching.
And like the dawn,
spawning love in varying shades,
then gasp and it's gone,
made just to fade.
Doomed to be,
like our dear Shadow:
ever-changing.

But ...
Clutch my hand as I guide this dance,
into hopeful melancholy and folly
at the state of these unremitting things.
See, through a jester's eyes
the romance of this chance:
to feel it all and hold onto naught;
to drink the intoxicating drought
of the human condition in decadence,
in agony's own bliss just to breathe;
to love, to forget and fade;
to be blind with perfect eyes;
to cry but to be kind;
to catch and relinquish;
to climb, shout, then fall and slip;
to resolve with a bloody grip;
to sigh, recover, rediscover, ascend and live;
to be all that which has been.
Our eternally mortal life
in remorseless creation,
and wondrously chaotic
manifestation.