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Matt Hein / Poetry / Lament / | |
| An acquaintence’s lament A shrill barking, laments of distortion, depression. Written 08-14-03 By M. Aaron Hein. As one of my acquaintences ranted on and off about some of her personal affairs going in a wayward direction and an unexplained feeling ‘cutting at her sould like knives’, I decided to make an attempt at recreating her feelings, to get a general idea of the ravine which divided her. In the end, I believe I capitalized well, evoking a wide array of thoughts and emotions...cutting, jagged, shattering. Caution: this is one of the few forays I’ve taken into writing depressing prose, however, a small change of direction is necessary for any poet, right? I can’t exactly say how it feels although such feelings tear through me, like jagged frosty needles pricking into my bones, fire encompassing my eyes, rupturing, throbbing through my head, casting tears like grains of sand against them to the floor, and they scatter, but break like glass, jagged shards which thaw into blood, then dissipate into mist It’s like being thrust forward, yet standing in two places at one time, looking towards the city whilst others go about their lives of ecatasy, while I myself, stand in that silent limelight, isolated, discreet, unknown. I shout outwards, but nothing, they continue their brisk and joyful strolls, their frolicking stepping through me while the torrent and swirl of traffic sweeps me away into a spiral of oblivion, tears and fog. It seems so encompassing, and yet, this perception emanates as so real...this is reality, and yet I live continuing to believe it is a dream. I seem pressed to look towards the book for answers, I am only cast deeper into the ocean of philosophy, towards its blackest recesses... and when I find light in it, it is revealed to be false, snapping, disparaging, shocking, it cleaves through me, shrredding my soul at its very fabric.... I wake up in my room again...that familiar location, serene, as the overhead fan wraps the swirling air about myself and moonlight bursts forth from the blinds, the sound of crickets chirping... I recall the smiles of those joyful residents about their walk and look at myself in the mirror...and then I see it...my eyes, those eyes... it was simply a nightmare and here I am alive... then I see that gun positioned on my bed, the gold of its brass locked into the chamber... cocked at the ready, glinting and recall holding it, tighting my hand around the leather grip...at the edge of the trigger and then...so it was a nightmare then... a dream, a premonition? I could have so easily been one of them, the jubilant, but I allowed my perceptions to sway my path... Jesus? That wasn’t jesus, no...this was simply the enemy, masked as the lord and savior, whom beckons us with tale of enlightenment, only to corrupt us, to amplify our hatred, our desires, our grievances, and infuse them with malaise, animosity and incivility. But could changes quickly...is it possible for myself to cast the enemy aside for once, and simply ponder meaning? Perhaps the simple ambition to attain notice leads us towards the tangential path, one which evokes the enemy’s intent? To ponder it, to throw the gun aside? The enemy wishes for you to wade into those tidal waters of inconsistence, go against the tide, turn back, and find dry land already, those needles will subside and the numbness of shock and malaise will fade. Your eyes will open, and you’ll sprout those wings then. fin... |
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