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.