Laments, sadness, change, failure - everything that is still forcing me towards cynicism and a sarcastic heart, of which I have no love. And my apology.
barely breaks a smile through a weak and twisted mind,
where every mental hands that leaves a mental imprint,
dissolves and shies away.
That is my hollow soul, and the slices of sadness I am missing –
or, perhaps, the ragged thief has hid them for herself:
jealousy with insincerity,
after all: she tasted death as a lover;
they enjoyed their dance and saw my lonely future as their power.
My argument comes from a sense of desperation,
that I failed because I tried, not because of a system, random to the world;
yet, the argument hides from realisation:
yes, I have been that failure,
and the cloak still coats my bare shoulder a warm blue sunset,
where the system once laughed.
Too, the argument wields its power,
not by remembering victory, but by exemplifying
misery. I will use the other Bearer of Christ as my example
once, for you are sick of hearing how much the lament looks like him;
indeed, maybe I would reiterate:
I wielded kinder words in his presence,
and Heaven’s guide held Heaven’s gates,
whilst the River of Cattle splashed its path in my journey;
with him or without I may have washed my skin under its cleaner jets.
We cannot forget that I lost both of those.
The sand slipped too far; and glass fell from my crimson fingers.
Every uncomplimented strain simply reminds me of my insignificance.
not myself, nor the crumpled reflections of my heart, a mass print too faded
and the Liturgy direction pushed aside,
but the other organisation
of a world that never had me as a master;
yes, I expect the jealous-demon to emerge
in the black curves of your elegant face –
simply, we must fight her together, not as soldiers with clicking keys and coloured typeface,
but with the love I am supposed to have,
before you left, before I returned,
before our paths darted in and out of the limelight.
But it came as your light, not mine. I only ever snatched it
unfairly, some might say. I have no skill
and I must learn that: I am second to you always.
Please excuse my cold nature. Of my bitterness I’m still trying to