I look in the mirror. It is one world. It is like a picture of me.
The battle ensues–one of anger and one of apathy
another of love and another of trust
still more rage…One of pain and one of sorrow
Then that of grief and total indifference…
With all these wars, can any side win?
I think not. In fact, I know not.
It may seem silly but it is all there-each facet
mentioning two different worlds with the
duplicity in each facet as if it should matter
yet it doesn’t. It just is.
Another corpse choking
on a Kaiser roll
while a solitary bookkeeper
keeps track of a soul.
When the ink bottle spills
over a yellowed page
some demon in a hallway
hunts me down in a rage.
It is only Mephistopheles
who is keeping the scores
while his old pal Leviathan
vents some anger in the moors
Then children born of ignorance
escape their gilded cage–
but not before the fool seeks
some wisdom from the sage.
Don’t ask me where this came from. Some times ink escapes my pen just as in the fashion words escape my mouth when I really get on a roll…If done verbally, it’s almost comparable to “verbal vomit” because I’m usually purging a few old ghosts…I write monologues once in a while too, but as a teen, I never let anyone see all of it…If they had, they would have thought I went mad…Maybe I was in a sense. I definitely trusted nobody and I certainly was a hermit…
I find it odd that people think that solitude is such a bad thing when it really isn’t. It depends on what one does with that solitude. I used it to create my own worlds, characters and such–much in the way women writers did in the days of old.
