Within Shadows a Life lived

The shunned shadows of darkened edge have become your home, that shade provided by the many arching demons reaching large across the sun to mercilessly blot out the light upon which nature’s beautiful growth feeds and spreads it’s bounty of gentle scenery

The withered stems of corrupted flowers huddled in hideous mass around the sulphuric burn of anger’s vents as the sole nourishment of bright flares fuels their twisted growth, such wildlife that also leeringly watches with contaminated values for its prey to leave that acidic warmth a sorrowful sight if the light were to illuminate their horrific adaptations to survive in the smothering dark

That damningly echoing question lingers more with each resonation of its mournful tone “Can a good man remain in all this gloom?” the words to threaten the hope of that longingly reached for redemption many joyous voices sing of, their way of concealing by circling the daggers within that illusive bliss of happiness an illusion you have been cruelly stripped of by the deafening pain of the daggers already a fixture in the scar ridden flesh that constitutes your back

And the more deeply persistent question rattling beneath the fractured frames of your hope; if you were to enter back into the light, how would your form now adapted to live within those overcast fields of thorns be received by the nervously huddling masses of perfectly fashioned souls now cowering from what they fearfully don’t understand?

As Control Condemns

He sought to control
To make flesh his puppet
A strangle hold on her throat
Her mouth his speaker
A silent grip to withhold her freedom

    She wrapped with care
    The ribbon of submissive nature
    To his will she bent as and when requested
    As he pulled her strings with controlling menace

        Till she tightened the ribbon
        His neck it’s smothered target
        The blade from the kitchen
        To create the food he demanded
        To bleed his power
        A red mess created
        Juries be damned and the law’s condemnation
        Now hollow echoes
        As her plan reached fruition
        The plan that vengeance demanded

     When they found her    drinking in silence
The body only a    short distance
  From   the smiling vixen
        The   very picture of sin
  As another excuse of a man
           She    enjoyed making      her victim

The Instinct to Anger

There within each living thing is the depth dwelling beast positive words fail to brake, an archaic entity of unforgiving presence that in the desperation drenching moments of a person’s life will ascend from those darkened depths a thousand armies strong, such strength to crushingly reject any opposition with vicious riposte as to shake the heavens with a single speck of its power.

This archaic entity that resides damningly in each example of existence is anger, rage, fury and in my spectacularly refined form; it is so commonly referred to as the ‘Old Rage’

The shining forces of civility and such honed refinement of polite counters to those provocatively aimed insults may bask in rightfulness at peacefully rallying to each battle, no resulting blood upon the aggressively charged ground a victory held above those lesser things that aimed at you, relentlessly pushed but without ‘it’; anger, rage and fury what threat do those enlightened forces carry to earn a win?

As seen by past events the threat of something worse looming largely over a situation drives the betterment of a people’s response and aids the rightful pursuit of bloodless solutions, such is a good thing and something I greatly respect despite the possible negative connotation of my words.

But…

Where is the line that marks the corrosion of honourable resolution into the murkier tides of that oceanic depth where the beast lives?

And should a person be so pushed back by the relentless tide of disrespect and bitterness inducing incompetence of those who force reactions less written in constructive tones, could it be justified to callously let slip the chains from your grasp to liberate ‘it’; anger, rage and fury?

Or is it as I fear; when you reach that decision it is too late for the condemning verdict to be mercifully repealed, a war not sought but with every burning fibre of the enraged form your lesser nature possesses will be fought in any way your soured will can make the victory appallingly complete.

So know when not to push and offer respect to all when the banners raise and war horns carry far their billowing calls, for the greatest victory is in knowing that such wars are never clean and that when the beast is sighted there is no clean win.

But on the air of acidic bitterness you must see (and I only hope never know for redemptions sake) what grim pleasures are carried when that witless fool who pushes with idiotically driven force falls beneath the jagged claws of the Old Rage, the taste of that fools blood a thing to savour in vulgar halls of victories ill meaning songs…

As across the line that marks the corrosion of honourable resolution into the murkier tides you feel the last desperate vestiges of a soul’s salvation sink, metaphorical bodies each carrying a little piece of all the honour you have lost which with the bitter after taste of an unforgivable victory will stick in your throat, and if you fail to violently retch; know you are forever lost and every experience you feel will be tainted with a bitter edge.

“When the hero strikes in anger, a victory of blood against the horde too foolish to understand what war they sought

Do not hold that hero’s name in shame or utter withered words behind his back, but know he has sacrificed his honour to fight a war no one wanted

A war that without victory would have carried a far more costly price, than the soul of the warrior with the will to end the conflict whilst excepting the cost”

 

 

 

 

 

Unbroken words

The broken a subtle understudy of all the living condemn as into worlds of light the darkened slyly crawl beneath the green grass of happiness as music carries happy vibes into poison clouds to curse the shadows for all the damned do dwell yet now accustomed to feed on toxic threads of all that soured in the storm from whence the acid rain fell to scorch and fallow hope now dug up earth to produce the freely firing flames of depressions fruit to which the broken see as all they need to survive

Love; Request Denied… Bucket provided free!

The ‘Garden’ you started has become the grimly referred to ‘Plant Grave’ by passing persons who shudder when reading the “I Love Plants” comedic sign, their spooked shivers resonating with your last partner’s stunned look when you said “I don’t believe in love, it doesn’t exist”

Your therapist even adjusted his seating position to be outside of the room when that acidic cloud of anti-social words slunk from your mouth, that for the comfortable normalised standards of your existence holds no punishing abnormalities or corrupt verses.

The condemning blow snuck into the fact that the morality challenged angel on your shoulder was seen at an AA meeting in a state akin to an apocalypse survivor’s sanity, the devil on your other shoulder having taken the angel to said AA meeting out of pity!

And there around you is the emotionally toxic cloud that consists of every friend, school pal and human of your age range breaking into horrifically melodic singing about the perfection proofing family life they have, two kids and a dog to boot!

In place of the faultless family life and cute dog; your confirmed single status and a mangled looking feline lingerer lurking in the ‘Plant Grave’ that with screeching hiss and protruded claw, darkly mirror like reflects how you feel every toxic moment you spend in that melodically resonating cloud of grossly happy kid spouting homemakers.

It is now you ask; am I built for Love?

And brace yourself, not from the truth but from the scowling of that piano like hanging protrusion that societal expectations place above us in the form of the warmly red heart shaped demand to conform and be nice.

YOU ARE NOT BUILT FOR LOVE

BUT YOU ARE BUILT FOR AN HONEST RELATIONSHIP

Stereotypical views of love’s insipidly pleasant values are built on the empty foundations of appearance and hollow platitudes; buy red roses, never stop holding hands, wear pink and say you’re ‘sensitive’, go to couples events and finally… always say ‘I love You’ every second of the day despite the fact that doing so prevents breathing, because ‘Love is all you need’…

Relationships are built on the rather more solid foundations of trust, practical co-existence, occasional ‘loud discussions’ others mistake for arguments, forgetting anniversaries because you can’t help it and falling asleep together in a way that looks like two zombies inhabiting a grave; because you both had to endure an exhausting couples seminar hosted by a husband and wife wearing matching pink jumpers!

If in mechanical fashion you pick apart the supposedly fluffy ideals of a relationship and you get a contract, cold heartedly forged as basic devotion and enjoyable sustained co-existence of which the two aforementioned parties voluntarily contractually do so confer their time and energy to manageable make work a beneficial arrangement of living… (and all the legally head bashing jargon would dictate)

And if that’s how you see it; enjoy a long and happy life with a like minded soul whilst casually burning the matching pink jumpers of Mr and Mrs Perfect, whilst hearing the most blessed wailing of that feline like thing occupying your jointly scarring vision of a ‘Garden’ as it frightens away the dogs (and children) of happy couples strolling by hand in hand!

Because some folks are not built for love, but wholly perfect for an honest relationship…

Hero fallen, the cause to live

You’ve played the hero

Donned the Cape

Tried to be the rescuer

And stood for the light

But the horde take no notice

Your cause set to fade

It’s goodness eroded by disrespect

So in shadows you draw the dagger

The night a shield to hide your taint

The morning will not hide the slain

As to the gallows you feel it

Your life has ended to make a stand

Your blood adds to crimson rivers

Of where previous hero’s have sacrificed thier life

As your soul joins those tainted saints