problematic cacti(i) blowing all about the arch
across the above ground, the bow of rain,
the trickling sound of wheels squeaking past,
soaring the magnetic asphalt,
reminders of my robotic tendencies.
I must be a singing robot, for many days spent
and lost forever, whilst I couldn't have been
singing all along.
What happened to poetry? Astray like a
dandelion seed; I must reconsider fluency,
all words that go unsaid, therefore unheard.
Once i had a passion, i can still hear it now,
it rings through crystals as we tap softly the metals,
resonating steel that echoes throughout my spacious mind
Vacant, placid amid the haste
complacent, my voice, bittersweet to the taste.
Ambivalent, the clouds are garbed in yarn and lace,
and still i watch them closely, asking inside my mind, what really are they?
Without their semi-shroud and without the wind,
the days would not feel the same.
They blow in and out of memory
just as flame helps regeneration;
contempt for the contemporary,
degenerate as distortion.
Turn up the fuzz, hit me with white noise,
like a backhand painted green, sudden, abrupt..
Black holes seen into deeply despite
my sideways forward vision,
delusional in the blink of an eye
as rapid as the movement of the skies.
Cacophony: unknown, struck by the darkness rays,
Your LFO is wavering, the fine tuning is creeping
The semitones are overtaking,
what's in that 'pop' that blows your speaker.
One shot and it's gone
Surrender to existence because it sounds so alluring
Heartbeat captured by the scratching
while the cacti(i) are deterring
Because I can not sing, it is wrong
that everyone can not hear my song.
It is silent, where i once
had laid in snow, I might have foreshadowed in a breath
the sting my hushed harmony would bring -
a soliloquy of dreams that come and go with fleeting melodies.
-EDEN GREY
-----written on 12/30/2006
