5. Desiderium
Oftentimes, I am too weary to recognise it,
Yet seldom, I grow weary as well as recognise it.
And it comes to me, each night, in Mother Nature's figures, yet each more perplexing from the last,
'Cut off your tongue,' fathoms a feline,
'So I may silence your unwanted voice.'
And so I told him; 'My tongue is mine and you have your own,'
I tell with much rejoice to him who peers back to me from the mirror,
'Though something truly unwanted is your ghastly tone.'
He leaves with, nothing more, nothing less, than an ebony tail in between his legs.
Moments later, he returns, in a different form,
'Give me a lung,' mutters the moth,
'So I can use the air that you so often waste.'
And so I told him; 'My lung is mine and you have your own,
'Now why don't you return to the path from which you have so pathetically flown?'
He leaves with, nothing more, nothing less, than his silent nightly flutters.
Moments later, he returns, in a different form,
'Give me a liver,' groans a green man.
'So that you may cry me a river.'
And so I told him; 'My liver is mine and you have your own,'
I continue to tell this determined creature,
'Now why don't you stop the prattling from your mouth so overgrown?'
He leaves with, nothing more, nothing less, than a trail of fern that shadows behind him.
Many moments later, he does not return yet,
Supposed I'd collect a morsel, only to find him in my Malus,
The worm writhers, 'Why, oh, why do you fret?'
'For you and I aren't contrary, merely I appear bloodless.'
I however stay solemn; aware, and he pauses for a moment,
'I shall return to you, perhaps another gloaming hour, for thou seems so ill kept.'
He leaves with, nothing more, nothing less, than with his deathly steps.
As to, in fact, relocate and forefeel such sentiments,
Though too weary for to be recognised,
Once one continues to forefeel such sentiments,
Inevitably, one will grow accustomed.
1 note
·
View note
4. The Greatest Illusion
A twilight now, as my nocturnal and weariful self,
Causes a failance to slumber, befalling me for every passing moonrise,
Turn to the clock, my mind begins a curious conjure;
'Certainly, the tool of time, was no such tool given to homo sapiens
'But instead, a tool whom creator is Man.'
So with this, my thoughts begin to unwind, repressing my slumber,
Growing my indulgence to inscribe these recollections of mine.
''Tis logical to presume that homo sapiens do not behold the great answer,
'But are, in fact, a small spec in comparison to the cosmos, beyond,
'And so, to use this logic, I can presume the tool of time is in fact an illusion.'
'What I can in fact presume is ipso facto would be noon and noonlight,
'For as the world turns, affection of light and night,
'Noon and noonlight is present and different, yet everywhere, in coincidence.
'Time is an illusioned tool, conjured due to humanity's need of mendacity,
'The evidence? Devotion.'
And although this statement is harsh, to some, difficult to sympathize,
I do respect beliefs and such, merely an opinion, I conjure
For the worried white rabbit that chases time, in need to be on time,
Will never truly able to be.
For he could have been early,
He could have arrived yesternoon,
He could have been there the morrow.
For this is the greatest illusion, which bewitches those unthoughtful enough.
1 note
·
View note