To Love

It has been months,
My mouth has uttered no poetry,
My pen has written no rhyme.

It has been months,
That I can’t grab a hold of me,
Driven and led, only I by time.

And no, the rhyme does not come easy,
It does not flow like honeycombs,
There is no welcome at its doors,
And it will not dwell in homes.

Only I here, a man without word,
To speak or write of she,
Recount the torment of her prison,
She’s locked us there now, her and me.

And I cannot write without a pain,
And I cannot speak without an ache,
I cannot think with less this mem’ry,
Sweet word-blossoms, my fields won’t make.

And I am overdosed on time,
The time that was my medicine,
And I am dying still of rhyme,
The rhyme that was my only sin.

To love and not know words to speak,
That is how my love remains.
Hid, not weakened, ever bleak,
Love knows not its own love’s pains.

To love, I shed a mourner’s tear,
To days again we’ll meet not here.
To love, I write with will so small,
For love has broken all of me.

Advertisements

Happiness: The Serotonin Shot Anecdote

An old man sits on the front porch of an old, weary house. As the people pass by, he tries to subdue his loneliness with memories of his past, reading newspapers and rereading old news again and again.

All of a sudden, and every so often, a noise or movement shakes this state of delusion, and he sees himself, old and wrinkled, desolate and waiting for a calm destruction. The memories come back as he wonders how truly, the happiness has gone from his life.

A relation perhaps visits the man every week or so, to check on his health, or rather put bluntly, the persistence of his now lowly existence. The man speaks of loneliness, of impending death, and of now bitter-sweet memories, going on and on, up and down the timeline of life, finishing in exhaustion, pleading and gesturing helplessly for an escape.

With the persistence of a man who has lost all, and has not more to hope for than a grain of happiness, his few distant relations decide to fulfill his pleadings.

Thus on a bleak autumn night, when the winds blew heavier, and the rain fell thicker than it would most days of October, the old man, fallen asleep by a windowpane, is rushed awake, yet calmly, by his distant relative.

He’d come with the cure; in his right hand clasping, measured precisely, a shot of Serotonin, the happiness hormone.

Without restraint and expecting approval, the younger, middle-aged, man rolls the elder’s sleeve, feels around his frail forearm for a vein, sets the needle in, firmly, the old man holding his breath, a tear going down his pale face. Pressing down, the shot is injected, and suddenly, no magically, the tear dried and the breath exhaled, his eyes fix for a moment, his pupils dilate, and in an abrupt twitch, the old man bursts into a loud laughter.

His happiness was restored.

“What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know, goes away in the end.” -Johnny Cash

Photo credit: PhotoAtelier / Foter / CC BY

Song Has Broken Singer

Song has broken Singer,
In grieving mind and soul,
Song has yet to bring her,
To fields where he is whole.

Song has broken Singer,
His days are weak and old,
And in his thoughts he brings her,
That tale now seldom told.

Song has broken Singer,
His dreams, those broken few,
Lay shattered on the pavement,
Where he had paid her due.

Song has broken Singer,
Has torn a man in all,
Better if he had made
Enough to pay his toll.

Song has broken Singer,
In grieving mind and soul,
Song has yet to bring her,
To fields where he is whole.

“The Thinker”, Rodin’s Masterpiece

When Auguste Rodin sculpted “The Thinker”, he broke the exalted false image of the Classical thinker of the age before and the Renaissance man of ages back that had so lingered into contemporary society.

He sculpted what I would argue is to this day the truest portrayal of a thinker ever to have emerged out of the hands of man.

The thinker is shown, a man seated on a rock in the wilderness, strong and muscular, yet, something in his face just cries out a torn and disheveled reality. His arm supports his head, a head that is worn with thought; his body closes in, fearful perhaps, of what lies beyond himself.

It is also perhaps not a coincidence that the thinker is nude, like a shamed street beggar, or even symbolic of an exposed charlatan: what is perhaps allegorical of a man who has lived a lie, veiled his unfortunate state in the face of society, hidden “the thinker”, tried to masquerade into society like just another average joe. Alas we know too well: that who we really are always catches up with us.

Is it by mere coincidence that Rodin had him seated on an olden rock in the wilderness? Or is he an outcast, banned beyond city walls, with only a desolate stone to accommodate a man that nature has cheated with a perverted gift: his mind that wanders, perhaps too far down the desolate path of the mind and soul?

What mystery does this sorry man hold? What in this gaze has enchanted the world? What man of the wilderness has dared to wander into the world of prestigious art salons, into the profanity of luxury Parisian cafes, only to find himself misunderstood by an even more pretentious society?

Will we ever understand him? Rather, does he understand himself?

It is a sorry truth, that all men who’ve met and shall meet the thinker shall turn their heads, unknowingly deceived. And though we’d argue differently, we’ve all been deceived.

We’ve all been deceived.

_____________________

Hope my dear readers have enjoyed this article!

Feel free to share, post, reblog, tweet, reply, like, comment, or even start a side-talk with me on the matter!

Always a pleasure hearing from you!

*Not a regular here? Subscribe! (follow) It’ll let you know every time a new article’s been pressed!