deepundergroundpoetry.com
blues for the materialist
an intoxication of sleepless
hours has bled to dark reveries,
it is night again, always night
again and i seek the ballast of the
frigid air to steady the torment
of my longing on this ocean of lonely
days, the stars do not portend of my
sorrows nor tarot the trajectory of my
love, they do not sing or dance in the
ballrooms of my heart this eve, the stars
are not even indifferently bright tonight,
even cruel indifference is a form of
acknowledgement, the stars are just dots
of light in the sky and my heart is not
even a heart, i am not even i, nobody is
anybody, and the not heart of everyone is
just a muscle the size of a fist
hours has bled to dark reveries,
it is night again, always night
again and i seek the ballast of the
frigid air to steady the torment
of my longing on this ocean of lonely
days, the stars do not portend of my
sorrows nor tarot the trajectory of my
love, they do not sing or dance in the
ballrooms of my heart this eve, the stars
are not even indifferently bright tonight,
even cruel indifference is a form of
acknowledgement, the stars are just dots
of light in the sky and my heart is not
even a heart, i am not even i, nobody is
anybody, and the not heart of everyone is
just a muscle the size of a fist
Published 13th Jan 2014
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13th Jan 2014 8:08am
When even the stars are quiet, the poet can still bleed ink. Feeling the sadness in the write, Sem.
thanks Atakti, your words feel and sure as hell beat those old bastard light dots in the sky, not the most romantic way to say your brighter than the stars but hey, it's bloody ink.. thanks again, my dark faucet seems to drip in the wee hours ...and this place has a way of making me describe it's torture... the self devouring cannibalism gets us all now an again for some forever
