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Beautifully Bleak 1


Like a Pallet of Paint to Bedeck a barren canvas with Depths otherwise Unknown,
Stand Ready to unmask me.
Call I then upon their Potent Power to Speak for me in Tongues
I would otherwise be ignorant of, and let them Spill Out in Endless Fashion
That, by some means as I may be incapable of,
Tell the Secret Truth about my Heart of Hearts.
Listen, then, with an Attent ear so each word may Fulfill its Purpose.
Give over the Admiration of an accusing mind to the Power of these pawns,
Which now I use so grossly to Unfold myself
And Muse upon this Dilemma, so Beguiling of nature.

There is a numbing silence,
Which Parades around the Inmost parts of me.
An Acquiescence of Spirit that, at times, threatens to Undo me.
Murderous and Suffocating in its heaviness of burden,
Pain taunts my every fiber.
The Shallowness of Love and it’s every Endeavor,
It’s every deception,
It’s every Blaze of Unbridled Passion and Confusion of Ecstasy,
Spin my senses Beyond my comprehension.

What is there, Then, in this simple Plan of Existence we call Reality
To give us any semblance of Meaning or Purpose?
How do we Measure the Challenge of continued breath against the chaos
Of each Beat of our Hearts?
There is an Unquestionable Merit to Patience that I am yet to Understand.
Give me Greed, hatred, or luckless ambition, for by these meager actions
Exists a sense of reason, but what of Love?
It does not give us any Measure of Profit,
Yet we track it as relentlessly as we pursue revenge.
It is Belittling.
It is Empowering.
It is Madness cast upon a writhing sea wherein there lies little Hope.
It is Bitter, Severing Loneliness;
A Place I run to where I might Hide myself and from where I run to hide.

Still; I cannot Hide.
Love is All I truly Long for,
Hope for,
Dream of.
It is the Apparition, the Mirage I witness all around and, yet, cannot Touch.
Each time I suppose myself to be Attaining it,
Love Vanishes into Silvery nothingness,
only to Reappear at the very limit Of my Perception.
Shall I, then, chase after it?
Or shall I sit down among the dry and dusty tumbleweeds
to Wait out the heat of yet another wearisome day?

I stand.
I walk.
I run.
Ever and Always, Chasing the Muse.
With Hope as Expectant within me as the Glorious Vision itself,
Casting all my Anticipation upon The One
Who is Ever Capable of combating all the Ruthlessness of this bleak Existence,
and in that Decisive Act of Irrevocable Trust,
I Behold the Manifestation.






Beautiful Photography by Sortvind at Deviantart.com