A contemporary work by the noted poet and permanent spirit Elizabeth Jill)
"I want to die." came the thought.
Merely a thought. A hefty thought, howso.
"But there are rivers to cross."
I sink below surface intuition
and open my mouth to drink from waters of oblivion.
Spaces inside me are suddenly blissfully filled with nothing.
I forget what I am running from.
Waves of muteness invite me into hypnosis -
though no wave is chemical enough to keep me.
I awake upon bank after bank of mythology
where slashes of genius are carved into the rocks of the underworld
mimicking a prison of longevity that threatens anyone who travels this far,
this very brief far.
Having up and landed where
all wounds of all people
are chronicled by degree -
I am kept alive to note and write the plight of humanity.
There are no words. None.
It is here where phlegms of hell
choke the anger inside of me.
I am a mere spit of a soul by now
crippling along on one crutch of hope
which changes its loyalties hither thither.
So be it, I gather a storm from every
self-respecting Cumulonimbus,
I say grace, say thanks,
yet still feel unmelted, unmovable,
frozen with syllable-less words.
I have emerged on the wrong side of the treks where these words on my tongue
weigh nothing
because I have not stretched my thoughts far enough.
So here I spit them out, bury them in the
grime of lack-of-faith
and start over.
*
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 1117 times
Written on 2015-02-11 at 13:18
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
There Are No Words. None. (An ejill poem)
There are no words. None."I want to die." came the thought.
Merely a thought. A hefty thought, howso.
"But there are rivers to cross."
I sink below surface intuition
and open my mouth to drink from waters of oblivion.
Spaces inside me are suddenly blissfully filled with nothing.
I forget what I am running from.
Waves of muteness invite me into hypnosis -
though no wave is chemical enough to keep me.
I awake upon bank after bank of mythology
where slashes of genius are carved into the rocks of the underworld
mimicking a prison of longevity that threatens anyone who travels this far,
this very brief far.
Having up and landed where
all wounds of all people
are chronicled by degree -
I am kept alive to note and write the plight of humanity.
There are no words. None.
It is here where phlegms of hell
choke the anger inside of me.
I am a mere spit of a soul by now
crippling along on one crutch of hope
which changes its loyalties hither thither.
So be it, I gather a storm from every
self-respecting Cumulonimbus,
I say grace, say thanks,
yet still feel unmelted, unmovable,
frozen with syllable-less words.
I have emerged on the wrong side of the treks where these words on my tongue
weigh nothing
because I have not stretched my thoughts far enough.
So here I spit them out, bury them in the
grime of lack-of-faith
and start over.
*
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 1117 times
Written on 2015-02-11 at 13:18
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Chaucer Whethers |
