jcfiud

what is the purpose of my flesh?
to decay alone?
oh how slow this life
never a bright day arrives
but always a nefarious night
in which i gaze up at the dark abyss
and find nothing but fury and fragility
within my dying self
it is as though ive dies already
not living really to anyone
i am merely another passerby
deserving not a second look
and only to be cut down,
left behind like some kind of old, rotten rag
whatever branded me with this horrid fate?
to which i belong,
this somber song
of uselessness,
i am nothing
never seen by a soul
has ever a thought been thought of me?
oh God what a sore is this melancholy!
my throat closes in
my eyes well up
the earth keeps turning
my time soon will be up
oh Lord what can Ido!
I've tried!
but what stride now might i take to win backmy hope?
oh for any others' sight i grope!
but i am already a ghost
enclosed by air
which must obscure me
away i fade
by all forbade
my flesh lives for nothing
my breath keeps going
for nothing

this is life

What a conniving shard is life,
Like a shattered mirror into which I stare
To find no other eyes but my own
Gazing back perplexedly
Stuck back deep into my skull
Looking pale and gaunt
And never divulging an answer
But leaving me in unrelenting desire
From which nothing can transpire

alone in a full world

The world is brimming bright
Spilling over with souls
Yet here am I alone
Environed by a million
Yet each eye I encounter
Swiftly swivels away.
I must have receded into the air
Like a mist never sensed
Have I transformed
Into formlessness?

time past..never happy

On winds the woeful clock
Chanting our fleeting time
Mocking our mortality
And here sit we to sulk
In anxious tribulation
Decaying slowly
And when does a bright dawn
Ascend upon vibrant trees
Whose branches flutter in cheer
Whose leaves shine green
And the sun is purer
Than God himself
Still shall the sheen
Of those vast blue skies
Subside into the past
The past always imagined
So much brighter
Than today.

life

Malicious and fleeting
The serpent that is life
Whose fangs bereaving
Leave us in solemn strife.

The venomous virulence
That is first a sensible sense
Is one thought more
A loathsome grievance.