The Philosopher's Attic

There are voices in this silence,
reprimand, anger, pain and frustration,
all come to speak without their usual words.

And every silence becomes a spectator,
of such a sorry display of refusal.
Their voiceless hardness is slowly,
ever so slowly, eating away at our sanity.

For silences are never alone.
Too quickly joined by symbionts,
death bringers and half-truths.

And the voices of these personaes,
so true they ring,
telling you you’re right,
telling me I’m wrong,
telling them they’re strong,
telling him he’s polite,
telling her the distance is wanted,
telling him he’s haunted.

By shadows past,
and feelings lost,
favoured heart, you’re letting it all be eaten,
digested, processed and forgotten.

And all because a crushing silence breaks more
surely than a true word ever could.

yseult Poetry friendship, Poetry, silence

The world is at your hands and the sky is your playground.
You’re dancing among the clouds while we stay earthbound
watching your trail and you radiance to a new beginning.
Your blessings are so many that not even the stars could
start to guide your way towards that life that’s waiting just for you.

There are not enough words in any language to tell how you’ll see,
how you’ll grow and where you’ll land,
where your grace will spread into the brightest wings of human kind,
who you will touch and who will let themselves be touched by you.

So much, so less. So true.

If ever there was truth to be had in existence
alone: you’ll be its peak.
A life that once might be shared and truly lived,
protected, held and cherished.
In a new world. A new mind, a new me.

My beautiful child.

yseult Poetry future, longing, Poetry

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