05-23-2014, 02:19 AM
The tragedy of a poet without words
His life consisted of dreams. Castles in the sky and mystic visions lacking a bridge to the world.
Always searching for the now, trying to figure out how it will be when he finally arrives sometime in the future.
Free enough, compared to his contemporaries, but not even close to what he had been shown flashes of from within.
Whispers to himself when nights come to visit, but rarely record the words with his pen though always within reach.
Fearless in encounters with the existential questions of his own rambling mind, his friend, lover and God.
“But what is a poet without words? Or even worse, what is a poet with words but no one to read them?
That must be the definition of ultimate human failure.” he thought. And as his soul tried to communicate, he found
pleasure in his sadness like meeting an old friend. For it was only here, in the cool harbour of melancholy that the universe
slowed down just enough for him to see what was going on. He was caught in the dense vibration of depression thinking
this to be the only place where he was allowed to see, as if some invisible force kept him from melting into the liquid he so much craved.
His highest desire was to dissolve into the collective consciousness of humankind, as a poet using only his words.
But he could rarely find them and on the few occasions he did, their meaning escaped him and he lost touch with his own creation.
He would much rather live in ignorance of his life purpose than knowing it so intimately without ever being able to touch it.
For what is a poet without words?
His life consisted of dreams. Castles in the sky and mystic visions lacking a bridge to the world.
Always searching for the now, trying to figure out how it will be when he finally arrives sometime in the future.
Free enough, compared to his contemporaries, but not even close to what he had been shown flashes of from within.
Whispers to himself when nights come to visit, but rarely record the words with his pen though always within reach.
Fearless in encounters with the existential questions of his own rambling mind, his friend, lover and God.
“But what is a poet without words? Or even worse, what is a poet with words but no one to read them?
That must be the definition of ultimate human failure.” he thought. And as his soul tried to communicate, he found
pleasure in his sadness like meeting an old friend. For it was only here, in the cool harbour of melancholy that the universe
slowed down just enough for him to see what was going on. He was caught in the dense vibration of depression thinking
this to be the only place where he was allowed to see, as if some invisible force kept him from melting into the liquid he so much craved.
His highest desire was to dissolve into the collective consciousness of humankind, as a poet using only his words.
But he could rarely find them and on the few occasions he did, their meaning escaped him and he lost touch with his own creation.
He would much rather live in ignorance of his life purpose than knowing it so intimately without ever being able to touch it.
For what is a poet without words?