I've been struggling to convey a lot of emotions recently, trying to articulate everything I feel. This is just a little something I wrote last night just before sleep because my mind wouldn't stop turning.
Here closes another vigil,
Knelt cowed before the silence.
Echochamber of requiem-
Hollow whispers clouded in solace.
Bask in the bemoaned,
Belie the façade,
Vindicate passive victims,
Pour your blood across the veil.
Tattoos like battle-scars,
Play the wicked soul his hymns.
Lounge in purgatory,
Self-crucifixion: Such tantalizing sin.
Burn the husk and bury the core,
Consume the flesh and lick the bones,
Bathe in the pallor of night…
Should it be but for the sake of Pariahs,
We'd make martyrs of us all.
Queer looks in their eyes,
Undaunted by the oncoming storm-
Though perhaps just too empty to see,
Their windows open to vacancy.
Revolution of voyeur reverie,
Dreaming vicarious fantasies-
With eyes wide open but mind tight shut.
Drowning out the void,
Lest parapraxis make weak our defences.
Shadows skulking in the periphery,
Lusting to join the flame.
Giving way to desire,
With no reciprocation-
Oft the line between sadism and masochism blurred.
Seek now no retribution,
For the shattering of another mind,
Routinely they do snare innocence,
And leave it hung out to dry,
Now just so mundane.
Crumbling walls of an existential nightmare,
Burning down with mortal coil,
Like cascading turpentine.
Naught brought but swings-and-roundabouts,
To beg another life.
Heed nothing but your own dull pulsing,
Of a heartbeats’ metronome.
There’s nothing to them any more,
Your mirror’s now but glass.
Hope… what is hope?
Hope is sitting in an empty room and dreaming your life is through the window.
Hope is living in a prison cell and imagining yourself outside the bars.
Hope is a lie, but without it the lonely have nothing.
You spend your whole life trying to find yourself.
That metronome of a heartbeat, pulsing cold blood through your veins…
Isolation is an asylum.
Insanity; the dreams of those without.
Those people marching through time, such purpose for the inattentive.
So much cruelty bestowed upon those who only seek to love.
They’ll try to make you see their world,
But won’t take the time to see yours.
Onlooker… outcast… dreamer of forbidden dreams.
You pity them as they pity you,
A lost soul in a sea of ash.
What is romance, when no one will take the time to look at you?
Survival is hardly living, your mind more a tomb than a welkin.
But can you blame the sorrow for seeking blithe?
What starving man has not sought food?
What broken heart has not sought to be mended?
In this moment, to know that should we see the horizon it would be our end, that the stars fall for naught but the chaos in our hearts, and that the days we miss were never lived, is nothing more than the edge of the abyss. Brought to our knees for the sake of tomorrows never desired, but begged for the yesterdays we always dreamed; we live a contradiction. Nostalgic regret lost to the undertow. You can whisper the incision; the breath, soft from your lip, cutting reality like a tapestry worn thin by antiquity. Rise again, the swells upon the sea, should the tides claim Icarus or stray he too close to the sun? Fall again, like Sisyphus to try futility until the redundant runs dry. Life is a satire for which there is no humour... stood tall again to stare into the dawn, realizing far too late that the sun is setting. Moonlight benediction, for the owls catch mice, the serpent messiah all but forgotten. Cascade this pallor, for the libertine now bathes in turpentine. Paid penance for a sin not committed, forgiven for the stain of living. Baptised in blood, borne again by the new religion, this aristocracy of liars and thieves. Heresy to call out their humanity. Cardinal? I'd call him Chthonian. Should Welkin ever kiss his feet, the burnt grass would show our caste from Eden. Treading, instead, on the simple ground because the secular is bound to the real. Should they dilute truth with fiction would but insult the awe of the tangible, and undercut the value of existence. Oh, what an oxymoron to claim humility and insight into creation. To make yourselves extraterrestrial is to ignore the very ills of the soul, and to make outcast the ones who most need love... Their divinity lost to the blasphemy. So vain to feign confidence? So simple though, the eye of the wandering spirit. Reverie made of a supernal kiss... what an oneiric moment that would be. Belied to say that the heart does not go wanting... but of days that will never come are the dreams of lost souls made.
My name is Jeffrey Hepburn, and I'm a young writer, graphic design artist, and aspiring filmmaker.