the seasons pass
quite like a song
twiddling leaves
mismatched chairs
asynchronous
humdrum
of cicada love songs.
staring out the same
window i’ve always been,
i no longer bleed,
yet mutilated colors leak
from twigs and trees.
the old familiar pang
in my chest speaks.
reminding me the words
to the mantra
of my mortality.
no matter the places,
the sights i see
i always find myself
in the same seat
staring out the same window
the same view of trees.
the voices telling me
resounding
further dimpling
the gouges
in my sanity
while the ghosts
of spirits past
visit me
in my sleep
such that
in my wake,
i am weather beat.
there is but
a waltz that haunts
heavy light light
heavy
light
light
stepping in unison
to the passage
of light and time.
sweeping
major and minor keys
how much easier
life is to bear
when there is a melody
to hear
but the silence of sound
could make all despair
disappear.
as much as
i want to burn down
everything in sight
i would much rather burn alive
because in my final moments
i’d tell myself i
was kissed by the sun.
in my free fall
i wonder if the angels
would play me a waltz
so that
the old familiar pang
in my chest
may wash away.
how i wonder
if the universe was silent
after the big bang
and humans were crafted
from stardust
so that planets wouldn’t
be so alone.
when my bones
corrode
in earth’s cauldron
i hope the sirens
will whisper a lullaby
to drown out
my heart’s wailing,
seeking,
the mantra of my own
mortality.
the cacophony
of quiet envelops me
as i sit pondering
in the deafening silence
anvil of anxiety
of my ground control mind,
overlooking the same
backdrop
of twiddling leaves
mismatched chairs
the same view of trees.
i will never understand
how beauty moves to tears
yet insanity makes us laugh
maniacal release
major and minor keys
i will never
be at peace.
amidst throngs of faces,
inside my skull
of unfinished thoughts
is the most tumultuous space
but with so many
voices asunder,
i can’t say
i’ve ever heard one sing.
so even in this world
bereft of meaning,
filled with lackadaisical
maniacal sense,
i always find myself
staring out the same window
i’ve always been.
basking
not in silence
but in stillness instead
i realize the mantra of mortality
is an oxymoron at best
for being by oneself
is not always lonely
and loneliness
happens amongst throngs,
the old familiar pang
in the chest.
for not even the most melancholy waltz
can be danced alone
and this so-called
mantra of mortality
of major and minor keys
is a posthumous conspiracy
that never guarantees peace.
so sit i shall
on the same seat
same throne
of corroding bones
weaving, shapeshifting
mutilated colors
of twiddling leaves
mismatched chairs
staring out the same window
the same view of trees,
the same old insanity,
mantra of my mortality,
posthumous conspiracy,
i will have to let be.
sit i shall by myself
in stillness and listen
to the asynchronous humdrum
malaise of cicada love songs
the singular bittersweet
pang in my chest
will forever be my familiar guest.
Ellamental Thoughts 