Written without thought, to break my writer's block.
I don't quite understand it myself, it is simply part of the deep, continuous ramblings of my mind.
Visceral Lament
Oh yes, you've come to the right place, my son
We have plenty of paper and sadness,
And paper sadness, but that's another story
That's not your story.
And so he stepped into Loneliness, and removed his blindfold
I hope you've brought trade-worthy goods, my boy
Rasped the voice of the house, the creak in the floorboards
Don't step there, it's a trap.
And so he traded in some innocence for a taste of adulthood
And spat with horror, into my spitting jar
Don't you know that good things don't happen, said Disappointment,
I would have thought you'd have known that by now.
But we care, said the arms, wide open, and smeared with honey
Not vinegar, but the intention was the same
A lifetime's secrets for a glimpse of glory
And the boy struggled to remember if it was raining outside
But he kept on the path, and didn't stray
The long grass tickled, and there lay a snake
He knew it was there, but still he got bitten
And the winds weren't sure it was a mistake.
Then we presented to him, on a silver platter
A little of our meaning, a little of our matter
But he soon declined our well thought out trick
He must have learnt a little bit
And the mud crunched underfoot
Which he thought was odd, but didn't mention
Because his thoughts of grandeur were far more important
And this is the end of a century, don't you know.
Still we sat in his cold shadows
And enjoyed the free ride
He said he didn't mind, his feet didn't feel tired
We did not tell him that in our hunger we had devoured them.
By now the pens of freedom had run dry
But we all continued in blood
And used skin too, when the paper blew away
And of course, we used his.
