THE OVER-BURDENED

THE OVER-BURDENED

wall of St Anne's Church,
of saline floors have urged....

More than a third in size,
will first heaven rest reside?

All ye thy words impel,
shall blight at the now still well.

Whom well, by place of heart..
manumit as thee of knell..

Forth worthies Now raise thy hands!
For thee be thus compelled

Worthy whom, shall star the sky,
After this human life…

...

When willed did us tis done?
on our own we graft..
all of mortal longings,part ourselves in halves!

the joys of our world,
levitates our tolls
doth amidst our writhes, yet amidst our woes..

Why give upon the lured?
let pain yet forth come adhered
oh wisdom must thee come dated, thence time no more procure?…

.. peaceful laid, the beautiful..
“F one L four seven four”
and ever far from now, mortal woe deplored

le garrot de “fleur”
tears watered embitter.
thy flowers fade,..Oh hear me; lord thy flower withers !

...

…within one storey within, of masters thou shalt have none, when all thou to give have no more…

© www.apoet.org, 17 NOV 2009

not up to me.

would you take... would you take it away god? I cannot do what's up to you.

reaching for god

despair drives me to illogicalness..as I become angry, I dismiss understanding...and upon things hate. Despair drives me, and thus motivates me, and my acts follows...irresponsible, careless , moralless.

a slash at the blood clouds!

no pits defines my depth, and the black therein. I shame at my own reluctance to antidote this laziness. I have exhausted myself. Spent. .. it was a feat. to replace my eyes. Eyes that do not tell a welcoming. behind the new ones, may them open wide arms ... for friendly embrace. And the effort to grow new limps and arms. For better outlook. See my vanity and the eyes for prejudice. See me as I fake myself. In a walk that differs, a talk that untells things... that might and might not be true. This must be the way of man! for it is the way of gods! A race to death...
breathless... sightless... aimless in the end. You will not retain ANY self esteem. Failed! Thy eye circles. Tiredness , do you really concur, .. adjust your self. Adjust yourself! I seek ways to excuse myself to explain myself to fool myself to console myself to believe in myself .. to comfort myself, to pride myself to lie to myself. The worse win!

The worse win! THE WORSE WINS !

across my blade, in the air, bring life to freedom! oxidise! dry to the heavens! harden be rocks in cold!!

Join mine to yours.

when as one. Be in flight....

my table.

I have on my table, plates. Plates of different kinds, and a few of them. This plate, I felt unfinished, and left unfinished. ..though I do not know if I have left it. Am I still trying? still holding it. A few plates broke. Plates break. That's one of the things that do happen to plates. Why make them then? If there are no plates, none can be broken. I imagine this plate feels for me. Yet I do not know if it wants me to finish it. I imagine with my big ego, it begging me to completed it. Furnish it.. and in the end of it's cycle, honour it. That's my imagination. I do not know for sure. A back view wrench my heart this morning. A pain so deep, you can no longer tell nor explain. It is in the end that we would come to remember the joy from it's beginning. And regret the in between. I am sick of hope. It toys us. We are but fools to it. For it means nothing and is nothing. But we hold it. Above logic, above odds. Above possibilities.
I gentle ly touch the plate with my eyes. going through it's contours...looking, re-looking...and secretly seek a respond. A sign. Ah yes, everyone believes in god. Everyone. And I have found the basis to prove that. Ah, yet now here, not now. Now I want to look at my plate.
This is time, dedicated. This is time ..quality. What can I do for you, from here? The scraps of food and broth, and sauce...taints and distracts... yet it is those that makes you. .. in way. This room dims, and the old air con duct, purrs and it's fat flap hitting back and forth the groves, made for it's exhaust to exit. It is cold. It is old. Faithfully. Voices stream in from neighbours... some whisper of secrecy and conspiracy. Some of laughter in foolishness and laughter of nothingness...whom has lost grip of sense...the fault of the world. Fault of god.
I am back here as before. I hate SO much to be back here. I sigh and despair...thinking of the journey, I have to retake, redo...and emotional crescendos I have to do again...brings me down to a dark black place. I want the last attempt to work...and fear and dread redoing of this. ...ahh. ..
..I see it near still. And it should be completed. The plate must be done. It must be completed. I shall go forward with this.

I shall.




I seek an artist, paint this for me.