ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
In a wild field, when you've left me
To contemplate, but not discover
What it was like, when we were alive.
If your heart remained
A pulsing organ, from which
The bulging veins and arteries
Would crawl up and blossom
From the ground, into a flower --
I will be there, to pick the petals.
It will be there for me to remember
Why Abel missed his mother
But never gave another thought
To a certain sibling of his --
Marking her grave with thorny roses
And wreathes of leafy vines,
But forgetting his brother...
The one he kissed so passionately,
As he was stabbed through the heart.
In a wild field, when you've left me
To contemplate, but not discover
What it was like, when we were alive.
The structure of a fallen leaf,
Brittle and dead in a Spring garden --
That was what it should have been,
Firing off a volley
Of careless laughing-coughs
As I slowly crushed it in my hand.
Here is an album of pictures I took
Of people I no longer know --
Here is a book, filled with names
Of people that hate me now --
And when I throw them away, I find
The curvature of my lip, into a smile,
Becomes the deforming snap of my backbone.
They call themselves a master-race
Which you should, by rights, belong to --
So different than my delusions,
With your body more suited
For a kind of delight
I studied, but never wished to possess.
In a wild field, when you've left me
To contemplate, but not discover
What it was like, when we were alive.
But I could steal away a dagger, like Tybalt,
And do as he should -- impale myself --
In agonies of self-righteous loathing...
When everyone hears the resulting screams
I'll be miles away already.
When I am finally alone,
Left to pick up my dreams
That were smashed and shattered
In time immemorial --
Every little piece will still reflect
An image of you and I --
Suited enough, to make a gallery
I'll stash away in a private room,
To behold when I want to remember the past
Fondly, but deeply, in miserable silence.
In a wild field, when you've left me
To contemplate, but not discover
What it was like, when we were alive.
To contemplate, but not discover
What it was like, when we were alive.
If your heart remained
A pulsing organ, from which
The bulging veins and arteries
Would crawl up and blossom
From the ground, into a flower --
I will be there, to pick the petals.
It will be there for me to remember
Why Abel missed his mother
But never gave another thought
To a certain sibling of his --
Marking her grave with thorny roses
And wreathes of leafy vines,
But forgetting his brother...
The one he kissed so passionately,
As he was stabbed through the heart.
In a wild field, when you've left me
To contemplate, but not discover
What it was like, when we were alive.
The structure of a fallen leaf,
Brittle and dead in a Spring garden --
That was what it should have been,
Firing off a volley
Of careless laughing-coughs
As I slowly crushed it in my hand.
Here is an album of pictures I took
Of people I no longer know --
Here is a book, filled with names
Of people that hate me now --
And when I throw them away, I find
The curvature of my lip, into a smile,
Becomes the deforming snap of my backbone.
They call themselves a master-race
Which you should, by rights, belong to --
So different than my delusions,
With your body more suited
For a kind of delight
I studied, but never wished to possess.
In a wild field, when you've left me
To contemplate, but not discover
What it was like, when we were alive.
But I could steal away a dagger, like Tybalt,
And do as he should -- impale myself --
In agonies of self-righteous loathing...
When everyone hears the resulting screams
I'll be miles away already.
When I am finally alone,
Left to pick up my dreams
That were smashed and shattered
In time immemorial --
Every little piece will still reflect
An image of you and I --
Suited enough, to make a gallery
I'll stash away in a private room,
To behold when I want to remember the past
Fondly, but deeply, in miserable silence.
In a wild field, when you've left me
To contemplate, but not discover
What it was like, when we were alive.
Suggested Collections
This is a very sad -- for me -- poem I wrote the same night as "Recessional" (early morning of 7th March MMVIII), in fact at the peak of the strangely depressed mood that inspired the latter.
Most of the reason, thinking about it now, that I was so depressed was that my mate Morgan
was so far away...and I wanted to be with him.
I started thinking back to illustrations I had seen in my edition of Omar Kháyyám's Rubyiát, and reflecting on the verses that accompanied them...and remembered the title of a song from Secret of Mana, one of Morgan's favourite games, and linked it with the symbolism in Rubiyiát of open fields and meadows.
They are, it turns, all lonely and vacant, even if they are lush and verdant.
There is an intimacy to this poem that, looking over it now, I'm sort of surprised exists in such a pure, distilled form. It's as if I wrote this piece in the form of a whisper, trying to tell someone something important, but hallucinating -- for whatever reason -- too badly to remain lucid.
Some of the verses are about Rick -- yes, the ex from Hell in 2006 -- and some are just about being haunted by current fears in my own life, and regrets in my past lives, with the twisted-up memories that fall inbetween.
As I said...it's not a happy piece.
But it needed to be written.
Most of the reason, thinking about it now, that I was so depressed was that my mate Morgan
was so far away...and I wanted to be with him.I started thinking back to illustrations I had seen in my edition of Omar Kháyyám's Rubyiát, and reflecting on the verses that accompanied them...and remembered the title of a song from Secret of Mana, one of Morgan's favourite games, and linked it with the symbolism in Rubiyiát of open fields and meadows.
They are, it turns, all lonely and vacant, even if they are lush and verdant.
There is an intimacy to this poem that, looking over it now, I'm sort of surprised exists in such a pure, distilled form. It's as if I wrote this piece in the form of a whisper, trying to tell someone something important, but hallucinating -- for whatever reason -- too badly to remain lucid.
Some of the verses are about Rick -- yes, the ex from Hell in 2006 -- and some are just about being haunted by current fears in my own life, and regrets in my past lives, with the twisted-up memories that fall inbetween.
As I said...it's not a happy piece.
But it needed to be written.
© 2008 - 2024 Royal-Sovereign
Comments0
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In