The Darkness of Disenchantment
By
-Eliahu-
©
The Party
In droves
they poured
bedecked and masked
playing their parts
fancily dressed
conversing with like
Reality had flown
replaced by farces
and faces
that laughed
in front of
their masks
When the hour
had soured
and the cues
had staled
they stampeded
home
to bed
to sleep
to wake
re-don
their masks
and live their farces
The Missing Portion
With and
alongside
death
I've walked
and talked
and fought
and lost
I have flown
enraptured
and danced
with life
in love
and living
The joys
of self
expression
and esteem
I've earned
and savoured
Yet
missing
from me
is a part
of the scheme
of all things
This portion
impervious
to influence
may control
or design
one's chances
My anguish
is caused
because
I wish
to reach
and know
how.
Aimless
Like a stub
of a cigarette
distorted
I feel
wheeling a course
zigzag
and aimless
curving and spinning
in the slipstream
of giant shoes
that trample
relentlessly by
Invisible
and secure
watching
I nestle
in a crack
between pavings
to await
the arrival
of the sweeper.
The Solitary Tree
Part 1
The tree
stands solitary
amongst nothing
but its ruined
charred shell
The fiery heat
with furious sand
attacks in storms
which continue
into blackness
Yet the branch
despite char
roots firm
and is aware
of the force
of its self
deep inside
that belongs
to no-one else
Gnarled
ash-laden
bizarre
resentful arms
point
from caked earth
towards.....
The Solitary Tree
Part 2
...Yet
without charred
hardened armour
ensheathing
one's frail life tube
we would wither
nameless
in desolation
amid waste
and everyone -
scorched
and returned
to ageless
ashes
Rather submerge
with the green
of one's core
and go under
inside
alone
without agony.
A Choice
`Am I ready ?'
The question
hangs
like a finger tip
and a knuckle
on the edge
of a precipitous drop
to oblivion
and everybody
The strain
on the joint
tears fibre
by fibre
while the drag
of one's mass
and the weights
added too
tend to fan
the pain
The dilemma
is a trio:
Whether to
smash fragmented
into the whirlpool
of convention
charade
and everyone
Or heave
joint and fibre
of one's frame
self-constructed
heavily fortified
immense
imposing
and hollow
to bask
on the ledge
in the sun
encased totally
within iron
Rather slice
one by one
all the sandbags
with a knife-will
allowing one's spirit
first to feel buoyant, then
to soar unhindered
into bright skies
steered by feeling
and freedom
and self