torn

"If I were thinking clearly, I would tell you that I wrestle alone in the dark, in the deep dark, and that only I can know. Only I can understand my condition. You live with the threat, you tell me you live with the threat of my extinction. I live with it too."

Virginia Woolf, The Hours 

that day You walked away

with it, You took my mind, my heart

in tears, crying silent drops of hope

for a single word

that day You walked away.

in split moment, i recognised 

that this was not so different after all

it was not the first and will not be the last

yet my heart is still torn

that day You walked away

i asked myself, if one could ever mend

a broken soul and a heart that never 

lived before...

i breathe to feel the pain;

heart, consoling mind

says 'don't worry, i am alive'

that day You walked away.

in grief, i called You in silent words

begged for You to see

the bleeding heart, struggling to be free

in chains, I kneed in front of Fate, 

uttering murmurs of desperate prayers

to release me from this mental cage

it was not meant to be this 

psychotic illusions that plagues

i keep seeing

that day You walked away

in time, it blurs

becomes surreal

that day You walked away

in my torn and illusory world

that day You walked away

When we two parted - George Gordon, Lord Byron

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow--

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame:

I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me--

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well:

Lond, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.

I secret we met--

I silence I grieve,

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?

With silence and tears.

The Plains of Ilium

Rage.

Sing, O Muse, of the rage of Achilles, of Peleus' son, murderous, man-killer, fated to die, sing of the rage that cost the Achaean so many good men and sent so many vital, hearty souls down to the dreary House of Death.

Catharsis

it was as if life plays itself out in short scenes

flashes – slowly, quietly, painfully

uttered out in words, lines by painted faces

we sit, at the edge, anticipating and yearning

somewhere, we tell ourselves,

“let my life not be this” or nod mentally even as emotions stir

“yes, yes, I know what this is”

betraying nothing on our faces

they speak for us.

utter our pain, a scene for our grief

be our sadness, be our souls

transforms

for that one single moment

disengage

they speak to us.

with such vicariousness, we play our lives out

alive, yet not living

emotional, yet not feeling

we purge ourselves

their misery is our relief; their pain, our joy

yet, we fail, no catharsis is real

every purge erodes, eats away

in the end, catharsis never comes.

Remember - Christina Rosetti

REMEMBER me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

... perfectly imperfect ...

...words, words,words
are all we have...
~Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guilderstern are Dead~

Never fails
And Always Amuse
The dramatic irony
Of worlds and words

We find ourselves
Perennially searching
In eternal endlessness…
Only to return
To the one which
Eludes

Millions around
In so many forms
Yet, struggles
To find the one
Who speaks,
The meaning of us

Convoluted, complicated, complex
Confusing
Sense is made
World created
Only to know it
Is temporal

We seek comfort in the mastery of words
But even as pen meets paper,
We realize that we are merely scratching
life
In an instant can be erased.
No word
Suffices.

Suddenly, blank
Silence erupts.

special tribute to the hundred acre wood gang.

Etched

like imprints on the shoreline at low tide
memories
do not fade away
gone but never far from sight
recurring, repeating, remaining…

etched…
the faces…
the joys…
the times…

like clouds that hang in the skies
ever-changing, solitude in groups
occupy our skies…
dissipating, forming, re-forming…

like the thunderstorm that rages with fury
times and events we braved through together
but has to end…

like the imprint of a tattoo
ever-lasting, you are
etched
the lives
the memories
you and I

To the hundred acre wood gang who most likely wont read this site, this is dedicated to you for the times you shared with me and thank you for letting me be part of your lives. live on, live well.