Sunday, June 19, 2011

trickle down blood
trickle down rain
embrace the curse
of living in pain
the sanity
of going insane

nothing consoled

When in love's pain,

there is
nowhere to go
nowhere to be
nothing to say
nothing to free
your soul from suffering.

It's drifting in space with claustrophobia
or motion sickness from the earth's spin.
It's freezing at 100 degrees Fahrenheit
or burning at the other end.
It's death by wanting
yet forced to live each moment more.
No search can end the suffering
nor find the right in every sore.

If at least it were the noble thing
If at least I sensed some glory
If at least I were the martyr king
in some heroic story

But it's none of these,
not ev'n at least.
In simplest terms it's boring.
For sits the man restoring
nothing by his sitting
and nothing by his spinning
of the harshest words--
the ones meant for his ridding
of the pain.
Not even rain
can drown his sickness whole
and leave him sleep, that peaceful role
of happy men, of kings extolled.

The suffered sits, nothing consoled.