Burning The Tree Of My Soul
There it was,
my old life, as unnotable as
Many million days that are slipping us by.
So I’ve slept and I’ve eaten as anyone has,
And I kept on subduing my inner outcry,
But it just wouldn’t die —
Yet would I?
On a greyscale I drew my existence in lines,
All converging in one consequential point.
I surrounded myself with the usual lies,
Like the social status we overexploit,
Getting hollow and void —
Aberroid.
On the subway or bus, or in line in a mall,
Presurrounded by you in subsumption of crowd,
I have felt in my soul: I will stall, I shall stall,
Oh, why couldn’t I just shout it even out loud,
If it was for your love?
But I bluffed.
I am not blaming you, for we do live as one:
Misanthrope I am not, though by many so held,
Yet I’m bitter for people indulging in fun,
When their inner undoing is ready at hand:
It’s explicitly swelled —
Overhelled.
So just shout to each other: we’re dying within!
We are rotten inside like an underfridge peach!
For if we cannot see that our future is thin,
Then for love and for God we will never outreach!
In our everyday speech
It’s unbreached.
Once I sat at my desk and, beclutching my head,
I so said to myself: “I can’t take it no more.”
And instead of recurring to my daily bed,
I crashed up and I went to a peopleless shore:
There I stood, soully-sore
And unsure.
And the weight of the world, and the illness of it,
With all sharpness I felt as a guilt of my own:
Why can’t I of this gloom be decidedly rid?
Why is innocent light by my scorn overthrown?
Leaving soul bare as stone —
Deadly prone.
At that instant there was that a lightning outbroke,
And a near-standing tree was on fire in flame,
And the luminous shafts, like a blast, like a stroke:
“Light is scorching my soul! It is sick! It is lame!”
I can’t give it a name
In my shame.
Went a staggering thought: “I have freedom of choice.”
I can fight with the tide if it’s flowing to hell;
I can speak in my own unconventional voice,
And the common unlovingness I can dispel —
As a child I then felt
My heart melt.
We are burning the souls we should nurture and keep,
We are warming our hands on the embers thereof,
Every time that we crush our weakness to weep —
At such time we are feeding insatiable stove
Of a sex without love,
Of a feast without fast,
Of a song without heart,
Of a strength without care,
Of a rite without faith —
Incandescence is now; efflorescence once was —
We are burning the trees of our souls.
Many million days that are slipping us by.
So I’ve slept and I’ve eaten as anyone has,
And I kept on subduing my inner outcry,
But it just wouldn’t die —
Yet would I?
On a greyscale I drew my existence in lines,
All converging in one consequential point.
I surrounded myself with the usual lies,
Like the social status we overexploit,
Getting hollow and void —
Aberroid.
On the subway or bus, or in line in a mall,
Presurrounded by you in subsumption of crowd,
I have felt in my soul: I will stall, I shall stall,
Oh, why couldn’t I just shout it even out loud,
If it was for your love?
But I bluffed.
I am not blaming you, for we do live as one:
Misanthrope I am not, though by many so held,
Yet I’m bitter for people indulging in fun,
When their inner undoing is ready at hand:
It’s explicitly swelled —
Overhelled.
So just shout to each other: we’re dying within!
We are rotten inside like an underfridge peach!
For if we cannot see that our future is thin,
Then for love and for God we will never outreach!
In our everyday speech
It’s unbreached.
Once I sat at my desk and, beclutching my head,
I so said to myself: “I can’t take it no more.”
And instead of recurring to my daily bed,
I crashed up and I went to a peopleless shore:
There I stood, soully-sore
And unsure.
And the weight of the world, and the illness of it,
With all sharpness I felt as a guilt of my own:
Why can’t I of this gloom be decidedly rid?
Why is innocent light by my scorn overthrown?
Leaving soul bare as stone —
Deadly prone.
At that instant there was that a lightning outbroke,
And a near-standing tree was on fire in flame,
And the luminous shafts, like a blast, like a stroke:
“Light is scorching my soul! It is sick! It is lame!”
I can’t give it a name
In my shame.
Went a staggering thought: “I have freedom of choice.”
I can fight with the tide if it’s flowing to hell;
I can speak in my own unconventional voice,
And the common unlovingness I can dispel —
As a child I then felt
My heart melt.
We are burning the souls we should nurture and keep,
We are warming our hands on the embers thereof,
Every time that we crush our weakness to weep —
At such time we are feeding insatiable stove
Of a sex without love,
Of a feast without fast,
Of a song without heart,
Of a strength without care,
Of a rite without faith —
Incandescence is now; efflorescence once was —
We are burning the trees of our souls.