Poetry/song
I have a question.
A world away,
Not what I know,
No longer what I see,
I feel,
I touch,
I sense.

It's gone.
What's it?
Gone.

Faded memories pasted on the walls,
Charring at the edges from inner fires below,
Curling at the corners from wear and tear,
Seething from the inside from insecurity,
What's there?
No more.

Disjointed memories of time and feeling,
I'm pegged on the wall,
Spreadeagled,
I feel.

I fall.

Fallen.

Pins through my hair, they missed my head,
They missed my heart.
What is the point?

I'm not sorry.
Never sorry.
Not sorry.
No sorrow.
What is this sadness?
Feel sorry?
No.

Hurt one to save the other,
Hurt one to save the self,
The self is all important,
Must get what it wants,
Not complain,
Strive,
Strive,
End. Nothing. You can't.

What you thought you had,
You can't,
It's not...
Why?
No answer.

Silence in the halls,
Of mists and drafts, forgotten.
New adventures to be had,
New worlds to be seen.
New explorations,
New life.

Always there,
Always was,
When is always?
Is it a place?
A time?
A feeling, essence, knowing what can't end?

The clock is broken.
Lays on a puddle on the floor,
Broken metal,
Clanging,
Tick, tick, tock.
It will tock no more.

Wings to fly,
Wings to free,
To spread and lift us from this place,
Together, as one,
Two fly with one set of wings.
A broken wing.
Grounded.
Happy?
Taken.

Look out the window.
See to the moon.
It calls to me, you know,
Scented whispers on midnight blue skies,
Out the window, through the curtains,
Watch your head, there's a sun catcher there.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Life is for the living, but is it?
Really?

Hope. Let's hope. Let's all really hope.
And then it might all go away.

Empty tables,
Empty shadows on the wall,
Where once the children played,
Children no more, they they have grown,
Have loved, have lived, have died,
No more.
The pain can't hurt them now.
Separated.

Why is this life that we call it is life?
What is this thing that we reach out and touch?
Is touch what is living, or living is life?
When all the senses are taken,
Can you tell me what is left?
Can you see it?

Aha!
To see,
To touch,
To smell,
To taste,
To hear.
It's all gone!
What is left?
Answer not quickly, the world may depend.

Happiness is not touched.
There is no touch.
Sadness is bottomless,
But still no sight.
The tears that fall to the ground,
Happiness, sadness,
It is all the same,
And the same it is,
To those who know.
Who knew.
Once, in darkened rooms.
Heaters and candles and shadows of warmth.
Tissues.
All without sense.
Where they really there?

Drifting and falling and spiraling away,
Does anything ever change?
Does anything ever stop changing?

I write this now as I write, and know that is it written.
I know too that when I come, I know not what to expect,
I know exactly what to expect.

Lines of songs and songs full of lines,
Is the world apart?
Is the mind falling apart?
Is this just a poem, or is it real life?
You decide.
You decided everything else.

15 minutes is the countdown to life.
A warning if you will.
And then, it is gone.

......................

-Zhet-