The past is a blazing bell, of sound and memory,
A place to keep well, all our things without corporeality.
Shifting and twisting and out of sight; still there below.
Ringing clear its knell, reminding us the thing has died.
The past is a ragged dog, a hound; majestic former glory,
Biting at our ankles, to bleed again the rusting story.
Stammering and yelping and crying; oh the bellow.
Barking at the fog, reminding us part of the thing does still reside.
The past is a thing for keys and medium coffees, and staring at the ceiling.
The past is the way we breathed; when all that was conscious was feeling.
The past is movies and green decaying buildings.
The past is fraught with making every moment bring us brighter things.
The past, is the past...
The thought is a broken bell, silence and forgetting,
A place to drift on the swell, for being lost and regretting.
Rife in the mind and skin and sheets; so unrelenting.
Making clear this hell, all memory pervading.
The thought is a halidom, a palace; what once was,
A place adorned with amethyst and heliodor, now rubble underneath us.
Crumbling and cracking; falling. It's frame a bent thing.
Breaking at the decay, reminding us part of the thing does still die.
The thought is a place for dreams and wants, and all we felt.
The thoughts are the way we inhaled; still knowing what was dealt.
The thought is as empty as all the hands we've held.
The thought is lined with broken fingers and a promise which we failed.
The thought, is just a thought....
The truth is a painted bell, cover and illusion.
A place to dwell, for wasting years in seclusion.
Sequestered and subjucative mouths and hearts; hiding all our sin.
Never fading, so paramount it's din.
The truth is tantamount, an idol; what is,
A shining star in an endless sea of shit, that we ourselves created.
Following like deep dark shadows; attenuated. But ever so persistent.
There at every morning, hanging in our eyes from lashes bent.
The truth is what we live and breathe and die, and tout.
The truth is everything else we know; spites what comes out our mouths.
The truth leaves hearts bitter at both ends.
The truth is littered with agony and oft times no ways to ammend.
The truth is, none of us are truthful to various degrees.
YOU ARE READING
Blank Spaces
PoetryAn emotive journey through the empty places we visit but never want to see. The pain, the heartbreak, trying to see hope in places there may be none. And the secrets, and yes there are always secrets. Can you see them in this dark empty space? So it...
