Sometimes we question whether our faith in people is reciprocated, or whether it even needs to be acknowledged. I don’t know where I fit into the issue; am I seeking acclaim for my faith, or are the spoils of seeing others triumph acclaim enough?
I remember when your joy was unbound
From where your happiness was truly found.
I lay my pride, in you.
This pride of mine doesn’t need acceptance,
Nor does it require some kind of deference
To a later date when a celebratory nod or acclaim
Will come forth with something as lame
As a balloon, a congratulation of faith
You are not a public figure,
Nor are you the obligatory somebody who is adored by all,
But you, are you; you’re everyone and no one, something and nothing.
You are my faith in people.
Darkness falling over such menacing sights,
Enjoying the fright of a mask;
He’s hiding a fearful glance you know.
How can the protector be so full of fear?
Leagues and scores of men under threat,
Even though his mind does not relent.
Relent; a powerful word.
Secure in it’s definition of accuracy and devotion,
Never finding the end, to call it a day.
Retirement in our modern times;
You’ll find no pension emptied on his suit.
We seem to care more for the mutant,
The strange, deranged and socially unaware.
But how, and why? Does he not deserve a chance?
Yes he’s something beyond known wealth,
Fuelling a passion for design and stealth.
And maybe he deserves no thanks
For helping when the shadows fall.
A joke, backstabbing, schizophrenic obsession.
Few men will cross the streaming light,
Blinding the skyline into fated submission.
Breezing by with little care,
He’s back. He’s there.
Without even knowing it has become
Something ate, slept and drunk upon.
The powerful tone has changed and adapted
To suit the millions forced into pocket linings,
But how this became a subtle obsession,
Is beyond the dreams of one;
The milkman blazes through the sleeping streets, to shatter hypnos’s desires. His van is old, ancient if you will, mummified in a forgotten era when his trade was required, in use, but now nearly expired.
I on the other hand lie in blissful calm, the purgatory state between the living and the dead. God would render me in the waiting room, ready to travel into light or the darkness if my background check was passed. But it’s becoming a familiarity, me and the square world unfolding in front of me, keeping me company whilst waiting for my soul to be transported to blissful sleep.
I’m not sure about this. This piece was originally a song, written to an unusual rhythm, therefore I don’t know if the structure works as well as it should; we’ll see.
To be lost in faded grayscale views would be wonderful.
Your life would revolve through the tarmac lines, following the street signs;
Hands to your side and opening out.
To be lost in self and suspicious clouds is regularity.
Flowing through the trees, burning fears to ash as embers swell;
Head to the skies and closing in.
To be lost in structure and oppressive form would be normal.
Listen to the rainy day, blissful serenity in openings, shut;
Eyes to the floor and pouring out.
To be lost in what, if, how and when; a consequence storm.
Sing love songs in your own beautiful way.
Heart of the sleeve and bursting out.
To be lost in light would be heaven.
As daylight dies into pulsating views, I muse my life.
I follow the lights, I follow the sound.
Ponder it all in just a glance.
This book of mine is so distant,
In years and in relevance.
It’s an echo, a fading echo
Of all that past before my eyes.
I can’t remember the significance
And I doubt I would have had the heart
To stop the stars being written,
The future told.
But this book holds nothing
In it’s filled pages of fickle fluff,
Sheep bleating like the page before,
Even the first defies consequence;
The future is written.
But sorry, I used a rubber.
This book, it means, and is,