The Philosopher's Attic

Has it already started then?
That place of the inbetween when silence replaces whatever was there first.
Commitment, companionship, proximity… love.

Once and for all?
For ever and ever?
Over longer or shoter, harder or sensible,
over time and over that space that’s already expanding,
over hearts and stone,
blood and that visceral heartbeat that is the most solitary thing,
there is a change to come.

Soon. And when it’s done.

There will be nothing left.
Of that link. Bond. Heart.

Those oathes, these vows, this ring, this finger.

There won’t be anything but this insurmountable silence,
that unbearable weight of nothing at all.
When nothing’s wrong, and nothing needs to be shared.

Just another day in paradise.

yseult Poetry, Writing

The sweet grass bends in anticipation beneath my barren feet,
Somewhere a dead leaf is floating toward the earth,
and here… a sunbeam is crying it’s last glowing tear in my hand.

My heart so full, my words so empty.

I’ve drawn out my soul, pulled out every vein of every feeling,
ripped every shard of every nerve,
every break of every drawn out silence.

In the end I cut out these eyes that were supposed to see so far.

Clap my wings and fly away,
to nothingness and everlasting morning light.

Let me see this end for l am destined to stay
because there is nothing else,
because there is only this… final understanding:
we become the one thing we want to avoid the most,
no matter how many prayers,
no matter how many hours,
how much love, how much heart or conquest.

In the end we’re just another wolf feeding on someone else’s cadavers.
So take your teeth to some other liver, your claws to another lightbearer,
I am all but dead, all but empty, all but used and torn.

This night is not my last, but it truly is my longest.

I’ve had bits and pieces of this for a long while waiting in my notebook. Scattered, really. The first few lines that seem so out of tune with the rest for instance are a couple of months old written on my way to work. In the end, every piece is a journey, a projection. The true sense is only revealed when you reread the title after the poem. It’s a confusing piece and yet, I know exactly what every contrasting picture means.

yseult Personal Poetry, vices

Don’t leave me yet, the night’s still young,
and the world is here even now,
greeting our every step and every sigh.

Shine your light, my heart,
drop your fears,
done your honour and your pride,
armour your eyes,
cast down the dreary pains,
and step out to shine your divine glow.

Don’t leave me yet, the day is not along,
our path here is not yet done,
your heart is not yet gone.

yseult Poetry Poetry, virtues