The Voice of Meaning

A mostly personal narrative on the meaninglessness of meaningful events.

to close my eyes and into slumber fall
is all I seek, and nothing more,
yet around me echo cries and shrieks,
terrible fears plague my dreams
and spill, like cold tea, over the rim
and flood my eyes; the dawn is dim.

Through fire and shadow, I surely fell
but now, unsure, sad I stand, and quell
the flapping of demons, now risen, lamenting
a death that never came, yet now beckons unrelenting.
I survived the god of death, thrice now today
what more does he want? What else should I say?
That I've fallen and hanged and bled and swallowed
that, kicking and screaming, unpure flesh is hallowed
against my will, in the name of another god, I am made
and in Her name, I'm made to stay.

I've fallen in love before, I think,
or it was a dream, or real, or both - who knows?
except him, with that soft uncaring hold, his name
blindly drives my frozen chest to flames.
My feelings are burdensome, alas not his
he is mine too, and not the way which would please
me and that man, we go way back, I'd say
not far enough, before I opened myself that day:
sure, your mouth moved and words, they flew,
And I succumbed, setting adrift a wine river to you...

...and you didn't catch me, of course not, for that I thank
you; so I closed my eyes and sank.

There's another man, who lives in glass.
I see him often, yet I never ask
why his words cut deeper, harsh, even,
as a cleaver, hacking between
the parts of me I feel are unclean.
He says nothing, though, unless I do too,
his mouth is mine, his thoughts not new,
his purpose is his, for that I'll never claim:
what purpose does death serve, what knowable aim?
other than to destroy that voice, that name
that shares with me... inextricable... identity;
I can destroy him, in a night aflame
by smashing mirrors! a new name I claim!



though what can the physical, however pure,
do against incorporeal demons, with intents severe
macabre winged shadows, which circle thirsty loners
fatigued, collapsing, the desert sands they comb
for a purpose, for a meaning, for assurance beyond
the dry and dirty sand, whose voice is gone