Rings of Smoke

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.

dirge…or lament of the dead

Posted on | July 22, 2008 | 1 Comment

it is true,
that we are dead,
unlamented,abandoned,
we remember our days,
and shed a quiet tear,
for the lives we lost,
alive-but not lived,
and parts-lived in parts.

the will not be any more poems,
and not again,
shall we weep with keats,
the search of odysseus
will never throb our veins again,
we have lost pleasure,
and the capacity for pain,
we went to find everything,
and found nothingness…

connected we lived,
not allowed to experience solitude,
and so,we must be lonely,
crying through the nights,and
sitting in mornings,still awake,
waiting for the sun…

we resume where we left off,
remember possessions we had,
to fill our emptiness,
the loud music we played,
to hide the silence inside,
and so we must hear the noise,
welling up inside,
insane,implacable noise,
like a dark light…

no heaven,no hell,
just existence,
morning to evening,
and to morning again,
tired,crazy,over the hill,
we weep for our souls,
and gladly sell them again…

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Category: english poetry
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Comments

One Response to “dirge…or lament of the dead”

  1. Kajal
    July 27th, 2008 @ 10:42 pm

    isnt this wot we call the spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions?? Gud Luck with your site wordy… will be alwayz waiting to read more n more frm ya :)

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