Even Still

There’s an emptiness one is called upon

To wallow in through dusk and dawn

That merried men would come to see

And plaid once pastels True to thee

Harried and hurried they rushed about

And many a turn called fallowed halt

The words they knew served them not

And in thy shell one came to rot.

Sometimes it is even scary to write.

Why would one be scared to write

It is such an awful fright

To have one’s dreams torn away

Not to return any other day.

To just let go

The fingers are free

The mind relaxed

Incessantly

Just let the words fall from the fingertips

It is the being that one is stripped

From this emptiness you are born

One lights the way for those fornlorn

Don’t look back to see where you’ve been

Don’t look ahead to what might have been

Live your Heart and don’t deny

The chain of pearls you’ve hung to dry

Around your neck like a leash of sorts

To wear around your fake cohorts

There is an ache from which this is written

The place it comes from has no description

There is no where to get to

And no one to find

Relax even deeper into no mind

A hypnosis of sorts is what you are under

A silence so deep

That not even thunder

Could snap you out of where you are

The resting place ... the cemetery of stars.