It’s a Crack

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The window from which you look outside-into the grey stillness of the fading away world, has a crack. A very small and subtle one. But it grows every minute and soon it will turn into a void. Do you see this crack? Does it remind you of yourself? Does it remind you of anyone else? Does it remind you of the tragedy that is the human world? The human world which has been taken over by the crowds of people. Banal. Does it remind you of the the rabid dog which goes around yelping into the bleak, dingy streets filled with darkness? Does it remind you of the transsexual romantic wandering looking for closure form the world? Does it remind you of anything? Anyone?

Because there is a crack in everything. And everything is in that crack.

Remember the time when the sparrow waded in the sky and looked down below and the only thought it had was about jumping down and killing itself…Only the tragedy was that it had wings and it could fly. You do not remember because you were not there. But next time you are, remember this. Maybe that is why the sparrow flies. To dive down so it can perish. Maybe it is not about the flight, the freedom–maybe it is chained because of its wings! You do not know–because you do not have any wings. And that is your tragedy.

Remember the time when an orphan boy roamed around in disarray, finding a home inside his house, bluffing with his own being. He adopted a stray dog, because he saw something familiar in it. Only, the dog got gunned down, shot once, shot twice, shot dead and cold. That is the tragedy of the orphan boy who now wanders the streets, finding a home outside his house. You do not remember, because you have a home–outside your home. And that is your tragedy.

Do you recall the time when the old woman forgot herself? She sat in a wooden chair looking at the window with the crack and simply forgot who she was. She could not remember her happiness or her sorrows or her longing or her empty shell. She forgot to smile. She forgot to cry. She only remembered that she has forgotten herself. That is her tragedy. Oh so you do recall! That is your tragedy.

Remember the poetry of the vagrant? How they talked about the happy worlds and the giddy dreams? And the tumult in those cryptic words? Silence in the dead language? Remember how the vagrant passed it on to no one–and was lost! That was his tragedy. You can not remember because it made no sense to you. And so the poetry of the world was lost once more–and that is your tragedy.

I have no more stories for you–except I do. But like a subtly cracked window–I will pretend I have nothing. Except I have an abyss. And your tragedy is that I see, I feel and I hear. But you cannot see me watching you, listening to you, feeling you. Because you do not perceive me–you cannot hear me, you cannot feel me. That, perhaps is the tragedy of those around me. And my tragedy is that I know it and understand it.

And the window has a crack. But it is just a crack. And it is a defiant one. And like all defiant things–it too shall break. And that is perhaps the biggest tragedies of all. The tragedy of all tragedies.

Two Weary Travelers

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Two weary travelers, set out on a course
Through the damaged roads
And over the dried out sea
Through a vindictive sky
And over the ashy mountains
Two weary travelers…
One was red and the other, green
One wept in euphoria
The other laughed in dread
One had a silent bird sitting on top of their head
The other carried a stick made of lead
One told stories of wars on the moon
The other sang songs about heaven’s gloom
One wore their beating heart on their sleeve
The other displayed their dying soul on their ragged fleece
And on they went, to far off lands
Where no one was awake
And they would ring the bells and leave a trail
Where ever they rode
And on the sunlit tops of hills
There were whispering shadows
Which told of tales of happiness and only
Sadness followed
And one fine day the crows were dancing
When one of the travelers sat down
On a cold bench to never get up
And sat there looking at the sun set
And when the sun was drowned in the dark
The weary traveler had passed
Into the gory light
Now on the train that goes nowhere
One weary traveler sits
Alone with their mind hoping like a bird
Without any feathers
The traveler has now a box which contains a dead heart
Which they wear it on their sleeve to see if it ever would beat
And time will stop moving it’s hands
But the heart will never beat
And one weary traveler sits on the wing of a plane
And flies to the sun as it sets

A Fable; Part Three–The End

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But there were fireworks and this was the glory
For this is just another story
Slowly the Grey Rose would die away
And the Piano’s tunes, forgotten
The two—buried apart
And the memoirs will also fade
Yet the stars would still be there
And the moon, the sun
And the freckled sky
And somewhere would fly a Purple Dove
And a Blue Kite would fall in love with it
Glass will shatter and the pages will turn
Swings will oscillate and the pendulum will break
For such is love; a curious display

Orange Canary

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There was a grey fire here last night
It burnt the roof of the city down
The orange canary sang in wilderness
The red dog wept in sadness
The purple cat hid in dismay
The people stared at the sea
That was an escape and this was the dream
The trees were ash and the house on the hill…
Turned rust
And the golden canary sang in its nest
They looked for me and I tried to hide
This was the story and it was a test
The whole city was burnt and there was smoke
People looked at the sky
For it was far and that was the cry

Bird in my Head

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I sit in a dark room thinking about darkness
I have a glass of blood in my hands
And a bird flies quietly in my head
I do not know why
I will sit here. For hours to come. And minutes and seconds
Thinking about darkness
All the light that I lost
And I cannot look around me
There is a bear which plays the flute
And I do not understand why
There is darkness around me
And I am the light.
And soon I’ll burn myself out
As I burnt my candle turning it into the wildfires
The ghosts play the piano
And I can not dance
But I do not know why
I can hear laughter and people talking
But it must be all in my head
Yet I do not know why

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It’s like the days are not even days any more.
Night isn’t night anymore.
I am not even who I was anymore.
The sky has turned into ash, it isn’t blue anymore
The moon is a black dot, it isn’t the moon anymore
The sea has turned into soot, it isn’t it anymore
The tree upon which I gazed outside
It is not standing there anymore…perhaps it travelled north or towards a dusty gloom
I don’t know anymore
There is so much dark now, I don’t want the light anymore
I loved someone once
I don’t love anymore

Hollow

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I was haunted by the hollow of my hand
What is in it. Why
I was disfigured by the death in my eyes
Who died. Why
I was shattered by the quivering of my soul
How did it happen. Why
I was looking at the curve of my lips
Which way did they go. Why
I sat with myself once
I danced with myself once
I dreamed within myself once
Who was I supposed to be. Why