Untitled
This wasnt so much a conscious attempt to write a poem, more just typing for 15 minutes and seeing what i'm left with.
Quiescent in jest, here’s to the lord of all that pains me,
A brazen solitude greets my every move, and he sits there, quietly goading,
Yet all is clear in this ethereal goldmine, for gold is the fruits of my tiresome labour,
So he may sit, he may stare, he may mock, but to mock is to mask inadequacy,
And to this I raise the glass bearing the tears of a thousand stray minds,
Encased in dreams, lumbered with false acclaim, this inadequacy, it maims.
Alas! In the empty bowl of a an empty home sits the mournful lord,
Encrusted in the flippant junctures of failure, for this emptiness is the void of hope,
The beacon of deprivation and the mantle of pain, the house without its occupancy is the body without its soul –
to which the lord is merely the bowl within my dank walls.
Bereft of the anomaly of love, I quietly battle this colloquial nemesis,
And in time, you shall come across this lord, the ruler of all.
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