Lacking Ceremony

He finally gave into the silence,
And then the silence killed him,
It had snuck up within his enclosure and snuffed him as though the candle wick licked,
The silence stealth and powerful
Then the silence tongue and mouth killed everyone,
The silence was finally quiet,
And the world no longer a riot,
It was peaceful,
And it sat in that reticence, listless and thoughtful,
Bent over as though spineless, writing in a drawing journal,
A catalogue of its convictions,
This encyclopedia of poetry, and predictions,
All of which lacked restrictions of any kind,
Was hand written, ugly but divine,
Divine because it was cataloged in the files in its mind,
A book of disturbing noise but not a racket,
Although at one time was beaten for its sleaves and jacket,
They were shed when the thread of the divine was shred with red wine,
A clarets vapors downing,
It’s papers browning, and in decline,
As though it were spilt and long gone,
Distorting words as though they were spelt wrong,
And an attempt of correction was benign,
The silence went on,
It was some kind of search like an archaeologist find,
But it was a purposeless kind of search,
An exploration of civilisation or treasure,
A hunter killing for pleasure,
Dressed in a style regardless of weather,
Useless hunter was more of a gatherer,
For now this hunter is lost,
And the words are scratches not embossed,
Or mounted on a wall,
The insignificant tracks leading nowhere,
They’re now here,
He’s thirsty,
And at a crawl,
Haggard,
And like him the last page of his journal is tattered
But it keeps the others together,
But what will keep this hunter,
He stand’s mid space in nothing,
So therefore what is up,
What is down,
He stands not knowing his own face,
If only he had enough fortitude to detach himself from the space,
Fill in the hole and stand free and oblivious to ridicule,
But he is too afraid to be perceived the fool,
If we could only offer our heart and hand unblemished by pretence to others,
To escape the cycle,
Live in haikus,
Harmony,
Peace and calamity,
Lacking ceremony,
And loving the land,
But even I am forever trying to convince the people that love me that I'm not wonderful,
And those who don't, that I am,
But I ramble some more and sit under a sky teal,
With all the people like brambles covering a field,
I sit amongst this field,
I am one of them as I yield,
But where in the bush do I fit,
No more than a blueberry picked, and sucked dry,
There is nothing as ugly as being a clone before you die,
Dead flowers were once alive,
And their fruit once carried seeds,
It’s hard to sprout roots when all the land is covered with the same tasteless fruits,
Weeds under the rock of day,
When that rock is lifted and night begins,
Time stops,
Until the rock is replaced crushing the dreams,
How heavy is that rock,
As heavy as the thought that if I didn’t like anyone,
Then I could talk to everyone.


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