Confessions of a Guilty Man

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The storm of my thoughts is my silence.
My solitude.
Waves churning in tumultuous seas, breaking along jagged slabs of anguish.
For only in the mind, in the uprooting of reality, can there be solace,
Freedom from a world that hates
Breaks
Loves.
In a world wholly my own, no man can hate me,
No one soul can gaze upon me and scorn what it beholds.
Or cherish the object of its adorations.
In the dankest smog of memory,
In an impenetrable cloak of isolation from all emotion,
Lies a lone soul
Shielded by torment.
In a soliloquy of solemnity does the rending roar of thunder
Shroud that knell which calls, beckons, haunts, hinders, signals
The dawn of everlasting twilight through which the fluidity of monotony,
The lives of lives that live hour by hour, day by day,
As a whole for eternity,
From instant to infinity,
Perpetually lack life.

And still I brood in my chateau on a mountaintop
Of feelings lost and thoughts misplaced
In chunks and boulders of the smoothest and darkest obsidian scattered
With picturesque chaos
Down below, the cries of broken dreams long falling
On deaf ears,
Lost.
A life misjudged smirks at the desolate wasteland of destruction, of powerful indifference
In the face of Fate. Time scars and scathes
The cliffs and crevices upholding my inner fortress,
Rending the temporary illusion of security
Brought on by years of doubt and insecurity,
Of facing the blackest night,
Darkest doom.
Yet Fate does not have a face, for light and dark
Amidst a storm breathing fire and lightning
Fail to illuminate, fail to shadow, my heart, mind and soul.
Fate fails to notice my pain,
Fails to contemplate the ocean of regret
In which I drown,
Spent.

And still I brood in my chateau on a mountaintop,
Thinking of times long past, forgone seasons of joy,
Foregone dusks filled with laughter long lost,
Distant memories wandering the empty corridors of my fortress forsaken,
Yet still my lifeblood for survival
In the Cold,
Flame.
Happiness clings to the heartstrings of the soul,
Present despite its great purging, the renouncing of that shudder of emotion
Which, in its great joy, brings great pain,
Living a cursed existence within the human heart. A ghost feeling,
Displaced by the futile ardor of times past,
Whispering.
Longing.
Hoping for some lost chance,
Reminiscent of a memory, a smell, a taste,
A feeling there and gone again,
Waiting for proper remembrance…
Gone, yet not forgotten, but all the same
Broken,
Torn.

A sound. A feeling. A throbbing. A convulsing.
A longing. A hoping.
A crime.
A lapse in judgment, perhaps, or the sheer irony of Fate
Sneering at the misfortune of a lone soul in blissful ignorance,
Condemned,
Cursed.
Doomed from the gates of heaven to be smote to hell,
On whose fiery coals chars human flesh,
Never again to feel a gentle breeze or pure water
Alleviating pain and sorrow, bringing relief and respite.
Narcissism demands a price which a sound mind cannot pay:
Optimism,
Brutality.
Ingenuity where an act would seem soulless,
Scything through bastions fortified with serenity.
Peace shattered, fragmented into countless glittering smithereens,
Actions louder than words ever could be
Crying out for control of a tide unrelenting,
Ever unremitting,
Merciless.

A war fought, a price paid.
Countless battlefields in turmoil on the plain of thought,
All for . . . what?
A Way, a course after cataclysm of soul, of the very essence of being,
A fear of the human heart laid plain,
Naked,
Defenseless.
In my chateau with mind on the past,
Gazing upon times before a tempest of tumult,
Penetrated by a single glimmer of the most radiant sunshine,
A trace remains of fondest hope,
A firm resolution of purpose lingering,
Steadfast,
Unfaltering.

For a summation of past wrongs within a mind infirm of heart
Could never keep two halves of souls eternally apart.
Though frames may age and seasons pass still on from day to day,
The timelessness of any love will never go away.
So through the times of dark and dim a faith remained along,
And past, present, future all still resonate love’s song.

A life without love is a heinous crime indeed.





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poetryaddict35 said...
Jan. 26, 2011 at 8:17 am
My lines always start with caps; some got cut off on the site, and they're really supposed to be in groups of 21.
 
poetryaddict35 replied...
Jan. 26, 2011 at 9:16 pm
Only on mobile site, my bad.
 
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