Love between the inanimate

I wrote, a little while ago, something slightly similar to this: it was a poem about the conscious soul that could not depart the dead body it was belonged to. This is a little different, however- after reading 'A Scanner Darkly', and musing on the idea of the self without will (which is volition and the desire to live), and so being a live thing, but one that is very much unthinking and has only to stare and stare at whatever it does or does not see before it, unendingly. Well, so this is about that, only it does think. But  then, it's also about an objective view of mankind, and thus, seeing into the very nature of man, and nature, too- all as very cyclical and infantile in the grand scheme of our self-invented master/mistress time. And what more? It's also about how we can only learn to love our own ego, and thus, what we see of ourselves in the other, because even if it is the differences, we love their difference compared to our self. A mirror (which reflects backwards)  of what we are.
This is the sad story of a statue in love:

So long ago

I stood alone,

just stood,

as I were made of stone,

though tempest knocked me,

quakes would shake me,

never did I give up home

never did I know company

other than my own

my eyes were set in place

and I would stare

and wait alone

stare into such emptiness

for that is all

that I were shown;

staring so unceasingly

you’d have thought

I were just stone.

I was made

a figure of virtue;

with his hand

he craft’d me

and soon I did not just resemble,

but rather, I became He.

From thence, I never moved,

never cried nor made the more,

simply stood and stared at pastures

as they changed

and became as before.

Never moving, I saw the seasons

pass slowly, first in awe

saw Summer turn to Autumn,

Winter to Spring,

the seasons, four-

I saw those pastures change

so many times,

so what I once enjoyed

only became a bore.

An endless cycle

ad nauseum…

An endless cycle,

nothing more.

Wearily,

I came to perceive a change

on the horizon: industrialisation,

or so I thought.

Men had come to build up the land

and make towns and

churches, and their

city halls.

Strange, how I came

to find

no beauty in what

was no longer my kind;

all those fleshy pieces,

so fickle in time-

I were to them

as they were to I:

something there to look at,

but to love,

they were blind.

But in their architecture

I did come to see

something so beautiful

it was hard to believe-

brick upon brick,

upon mortar and all,

something so strong

that never could fall!

Those people that move

and are so quickly disposed

would never know love

as a statue does know;

though between two inanimates

no words are passed,

we yet love one another

for the fact that we last.

And over the years

what I did come to see

was nothing short of a paradise

erected before me.

But paradise is not meant

for us earthly few;

we are here to be tested

and tortured anew.

And it took no longer

than a short hundred years

until man was at war

with the man that he feared.

Panic fed upon terror

and the world was ablaze

with bombs that blew up

and fire that razed

and if a statue could blink,

in that time it was gone:

all of the beauty

I scarcely had known.

How I would weep

and shudder

if my bones were unfroze

to see there;

my beloved

torn asunder!

Deposed!

Still, I do stand

with unending gaze

at the desecrated plot

of my happiest days

and should ever you think

do not be alarmed

that the coldest of statues

may house a still beating heart.

What a crazy dream!

Life, I mean- isn't it? Odd opportunities, missed chances, curious reminders and drifting memories. Life is very much a watercolour where the shit blends into the serene sky. I've lived an odd dream-like life, dream and nightmare alike, in fact, where realities seem too good to be true and at once are turned on their heads. This is a description of a strange dream that I had, because I do not have the talent or patience to write the real life example that is fresh in my memory and needs the confidence of another day to become cemented in history. For now, I will hold on to my dreams.

On second thought, I reject the idea of allowing anything more.

Death

Here's a poem I wrote while I watched an old cartoon from my early childhood.
You may wonder where the inspiration comes from, more specifically, how it came to be. If this is the case, I assure you that we were not watching the same show.

Death:
my old friend,
the one to whom
I am most comfortable.
You are nothing
to be feared,
but one who can be relied upon:
on one we can depend.
You will never cease
in your love for us,
the one great certainty
until the end.

On Wine and Things...

It's been a little while since I were last on here. I've not been so faithful. I have my reasons; each as small and insignificant as each other. Nevertheless, I have been working, at times, writing short aphorism's and other little cuts of my thoughts for my novel. Wine played a fair part in the past week or so... Here's a couple of things on the subject of something or other.

 Claret
    the blood fills my glass
Claret
    I think of my wound
Claret
    it runs down my throat
Claret
    I think of you

There is so much in a name;
so much and nothing at all;
what is it but the whim of your parents,
and what you will
from thence be known and remembered for,
remembered,
or forgotten,
entirely and forever

Some Velvet Morning

Despite my age, I have loved as much as any other, older- which is to love so completely, that every day of separation brings pain. It was for her that I became so much, but with the realisation of her womanhood, she made need to grow apart. And Phaedra was her name.

Listening to that song;

our very elegy,

and your last words-

how you gave me life

and how you made it in.

Walking through the rain

my body was shattered

as if made of stone.

Wrapp’d in sorrow,

though I were,

I could not cry.

I made my vow

to the angels

and the heavens wept

for I 

Misery Chord

An act of mercy, yet what a curious connection can be made phonetically. The sound of one's misery deserves an act of kindness, in return. Perhaps that is the secret of it.

With consternation I stand

awaiting

for my way to be made clear

Only with your blessing

will my pain be abated

It is only you

that I stand to hear.

And should you wish

to show me sufferance

permit me now

your misericord

For, even saints

can find their spirit broken,

Yes, even they

can doubt the lord.

And as I am

no saint nor prophet

but just a man, this:

my confession-

permit me now

to lean upon you;

lend me your hand,

for my repentance.

'On the Suffering of the World'

Schopenhauer's a grand read, that I can't deny- his prose is not so prosaic, and though the more I read, the more I am conditioned into accepting that I am dying, forever losing sight or grasp of the present moment, his way of passing time is as good as any other; to remove oneself from the parade and just observe it a while, as if objectively, then to carry on with the march, until we reach the end of our own, subjective, promenade.
I've always felt that life was just a series of moments leading to our death. This is a rational view, I feel, but some may see it as a little despairing. But then, why despair over the inevitable? Better yet to find one's own way of living through it- coping- you might say, ignoring, might say others. Do what you will until the issue is resolved, patiently waiting, meditating, it's all just a way of dealing with time; or the end of time, until it happens and nothing can be done either way.
Given a long enough period of time, the chances of any 'thing' increases. What does this mean?

Schopenhauer tells me that life is worthless.

All this, I knew before.

All efforts in life are meagre

procrastinations

to whittle away our time

until we die.

And if we’re lucky-

smiled upon by chance-

we would have enjoyed just a few

instances in our life,

as a repose,

before the ceaseless struggle continues:

to work, to earn, to live…

… to die.

All happiness is eclipsed, in time.

All this, I knew before.

We try to make a name for ourselves

to reach closer to our limits.

What’s that we see in the distance?

Is it happiness? Is it fulfilment?

The question is, will you ever reach it,

and should you achieve it,

was it worth it?

Are you happy now?

Will you be satisfied tomorrow?

Tomorrow arrives, punctual as always

now what is contingent to your desires?

Do you not yearn for yesterday?

I seek only oblivion:

the pleasure of the fuck

and the following rest, where,

shutting my eyes,

I will blank out the world

taking a step back

from existence.

And the earth will yet spin

and all is all

as all is the same.

There is no worthy change in time.

All this, I knew before.

Ode To Autumn

I felt, with the coming of September, a change in the air as I breathed it in and felt the perambulations of the atmosphere about me, noticing the descent of dark had quickened its pace. I love Autumn, for the sacrifice of the leaves as they throw their bodies to the ground, for the smell of primal fires that forever linger, for the cooling air as it de-pressurises in density.
Perhaps this poem isn't very worthy, but this is an ode to Autumn:

Autumn, at last!

You divined your way

into my life

shadowing the season of Summer

as sure as the flow of time,

gentle as undisturbed waters.

You darken the horizon

with vicissitude in your very nature-

to bring about man’s instalment

of unnatural light.

You quiet the bird that sings

as you usher in your successor;

Winter-

our most frigid mistress

who opposes the gayety, opulence

and nakedness

of our great Summer

who, shyly, bows out

proceeding your advance