Hollowed Ground
From infantry to childhood, I
seemed to believe that the life I lived was what was known as perfection. Crooked
and distorted, my dreams and hopes were birthed of improper delusions. It was
not until adolescence that I became aware of my falsehood, as I reflected upon
my past with the application of my gathered learnings
throughout the years. I discovered Pandora's box, the life within a life,
meanings and symbols of things gone unseen by a child's eye, but visible now
through the eyes of time.
Things
simplistic in nature and things all too complicated, all demanding a specific
level of comprehension. The twists and paths we crawl through in our lives, the
people we display our pasted smiles to and the ancestor's we walk upon as they
decay in their graves...all oblivious...neither emanating answers, only more
questions and inner turmoil's. Whether we whisper or scream, we will always go
unheard... Words spoken and thought become unprocessed and disposed, for the
world has become deaf to our emotions...as we have suffered it, it will suffer
us.
Pain
carved in the eyes of children whose feet wander the soils uncovered and whose
stomachs ache for food, men and women whom roam about with empty hearts, trying
to fill the void with knowledge and busying meaningless activities instead.
Dying stars rain from the sky, fluid fires of loneliness burn their tears and
sting their skin. Eagerly, we grasp the maiden darkness...always untouched by
the light, for she races against it. We are numb if we are happy and blind, but
we are alive if we feel pain and hurt...The temporary taste of happiness slips
past your tongue, then rises again, spoiled and acidic, as bile. Eyes seen
peering through screens are the ones that wander past me with each passing
day...mental screens, holding back there truest feelings and thoughts.
Everyone
holds something back, and everyone else feels more empty in return for it. The
double bladed pain of secrets injures both the barer and it's inflicted person.
The slow and sad passing days like a sorrow-filled melody, ringing in the heads
and ears of all who listen to it's rhythm, shed their tears, and frown for it.
The day passes the same as life passes. A person's lifespan is the measure of a
day, young fresh, and bright in the beginning and dark, sad, and sorrowful in
the end.
Questions
become prompted script lines rather than sought answers. Doomed we are, to
repeat the ill-fates of those before us. Delicate memories fade like soft
fabric prints, and death creates forgotten spirits of whom endured much the
same as we. Echoes of cries in the rain, tunnels of thoughts and stale
whispers. Afterwards, we all stumble onto the same soggy dirt and weep for our forgotten
innocence.
