Concrete
2010-01-21, 06:26 PM
Things I have written.
Please say what you think :)
"Fool, into the void"
He had a name once. A strict, orderly name. That kind of name that gave a child grief, an adolescent confused smiles and a genius the utmost respect and admiration.
He doesn’t have a name anymore. He isn’t a genius anymore. He’s a god. He receives the same offhanded admiration as a god. The same mundane contempt and love. To his followers, he is the stern father and the unruly child. They follow his every command, as long as those commands go with the scriptures they wrote for him. Thick tomes that nauseated him back in the day when he still cared to read them. When he tried to rebel, they chained him to the helm, on the bridge that became his temple. Only the highest priests come there. They control it. Masked under their ceremonies, they have the most basic understanding of its function. They pray to him, their prayers masked and confused pleas for help and his answers are twisted into new tomes and new riddles and new prophesies.
He has contemplated suicide. To stop eating their offerings. To bash his skull open against the helm…
But he can’t. He knows how much they need him. He knows the ship. He knows that without him it would wither and die. He still cares for the descendants of his crew, regardless of their crimes.
And deep inside, he still hopes.
That he can lead them home.
That he can save them.
A fools hope.
"Whimsical people in a beautiful city."
Sitting by the door
Of the welded shut bomb shelter
Woman with no eyes.
Staring from the roof.
Of the shut-down theatre.
Three eyes, no pupils.
Those old rough sleepers.
Who laugh as the world roll by.
Their fangs are so white.
Children in the park.
Tell of men in the shadows.
Too many fingers.
The nightshift workers.
Whisper of muffled voices.
From shadowy rafters.
Yet I still wonder.
Who is the man behind me?
His face is rotten.
Please say what you think :)
"Fool, into the void"
He had a name once. A strict, orderly name. That kind of name that gave a child grief, an adolescent confused smiles and a genius the utmost respect and admiration.
He doesn’t have a name anymore. He isn’t a genius anymore. He’s a god. He receives the same offhanded admiration as a god. The same mundane contempt and love. To his followers, he is the stern father and the unruly child. They follow his every command, as long as those commands go with the scriptures they wrote for him. Thick tomes that nauseated him back in the day when he still cared to read them. When he tried to rebel, they chained him to the helm, on the bridge that became his temple. Only the highest priests come there. They control it. Masked under their ceremonies, they have the most basic understanding of its function. They pray to him, their prayers masked and confused pleas for help and his answers are twisted into new tomes and new riddles and new prophesies.
He has contemplated suicide. To stop eating their offerings. To bash his skull open against the helm…
But he can’t. He knows how much they need him. He knows the ship. He knows that without him it would wither and die. He still cares for the descendants of his crew, regardless of their crimes.
And deep inside, he still hopes.
That he can lead them home.
That he can save them.
A fools hope.
"Whimsical people in a beautiful city."
Sitting by the door
Of the welded shut bomb shelter
Woman with no eyes.
Staring from the roof.
Of the shut-down theatre.
Three eyes, no pupils.
Those old rough sleepers.
Who laugh as the world roll by.
Their fangs are so white.
Children in the park.
Tell of men in the shadows.
Too many fingers.
The nightshift workers.
Whisper of muffled voices.
From shadowy rafters.
Yet I still wonder.
Who is the man behind me?
His face is rotten.