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Turn to ashes,

...a blaze by many,

dear sanity:



...Thy arc has fallen round, by sound it's vanishing wonder has dissipated.

By wind, by anger and by noise. Dear sanity: return insanity into the void.

Allow the common peace a chance to be. It's run rampant far too long, a brutal song;

of death, of violence and greed.



Dear Sanity: Creator of the arc, your will is stark yet ignored. Subject to abuse, lies and gore.

Your word has vanished, what has come? What will be? Disaster? Tragedy? I fear to think.

Yet there's no place to hide, from crazy rich people on a high. A greed high, it's the worst.



Whether you hear this or not, somebody please give them some pot. Maybe they'll finally leave us alone.

...This evening;

(I will age.)

I will crumble,

...to deceased;

clutching the remnants of happiness

...to my chest.



Like the most precious treasure

...lost for eternity,

I resign myself to defeat;

tonight,

...on my lonely birthday.



The spiders comfort me,

weave silk blankets to quell my tears.

They dance for me,

sway from spinneret to spinneret,

...but they cannot stop the despair,

which I feel,

...on my lonely birthday.



The spirits, O' so human

...are the spirits,

that bring me gifts wrapped in ectoplasm

(and a bow)

...an old toothbrush, a used comb,

which they found laying in the road;

will not stop the pain that eats at me.



I tell them to go home.

...they make faces,

dance and joke

(to find my smile)

...I lost it long ago,

on a deserted road

(where few would go)

my tears continue unabated.



Regardless of the sentiment,

...the will of merriment,

I will weep against a wall

(fore there is loneliness in a crowd)

the feeling of obligation,

feeling so unwanted,

the world itself is insincere.



So I will weep against a wall,

pushing back the happiness

(possessed by loneliness)

...yet another wasted year,

culminating,

...on my lonely birthday.

I see brown leaves drooping, burn marks in the bark,

the populated gala, ignorant in the park.

...With obliviousness, boots are crushing-

the dreaming leaves that died before.



Wild roots, a strewn abroad,

rot from tip to base, a sad sad song.

...And the core

it's weeping, a noise severe that ears can't hear,

painful howling from the wood,

that individual ears misunderstood.



Yet over the tumult,

uproar crowd without remorse,

I wonder how the tree there died.

was it a plant's equivalent cyanide?

Staring at the husking shell,

littered with burnt butts and ashes-

the center of party hats and flashes,

a tobacco funeral straight from hell,

poor tree, I bid thee well.



A victim of stupidity and arson,

alcohol violence and poison.

Proof that nature hates the flaws of man.

I'll never know the pain thy has endured,

from life, reduced to shards of wood...



And all for humanity's entertainment,

...I think I understand the plant's equivalent cyanide.

First evening's frost,

...a gentle touch-

to kiss the glass,

enrobing blanket 'pon the out,

neither heating, nor shielding-

...those unlucky few-

who chance upon it's love-

in the cruel chill of fortnight.

The equinox is days away,

the only day that's equal,

both night and day-

get a say.



It's social anarchism-

on a universal scale.

perpetuated by a mysterious veil,

that society ignores completely.







- Don't you think it's funny how the universe dedicated two days to appease both night and day and to equalize the seasons,



...when humanity can't stop squabbling over money for an hour.

The barrier thinning,

...the spirit realm divulged-

the grim is ever lurking,

the appetite indulged.



The sky is ever darkening,

blood red shapes seen floating through the air,

not a time to be wandering,

saunter if you dare.



Fallen leaves turn red with fear,

creeks freeze over,

the mammals hide,

the birds fly south,

...and summer dies.



The rift now opens,

...they come to play,

to say hello,

(this way?)

...the narrator runs away.



Hiding in a sand bed near a lee

the frost,

it clutches, at the knee-

fear takes hold-

...and those that are bold,

continue to enjoy the night life.



"Hey buddy you ok?"

...The narrator runs away.

"that's impolite, I just said hi.

we just wanted to come and play.

Why does everyone run away?"



The dark shape turns to face the audience,

face invisible in the black, it raises it's arm-

...and makes a pose.



"It's getting late, good night folks."

Another murder,

excuse, excuse...

another justification-

of that excuse,

demeaning life to a singularity-

as meaningless as the air.



However I find the air important-

it keeps us living, our lungs throbbing,

our drive to live, kept alive.



Wearing a uniform, empowers-

someone to justify their ends-

...and to define who lives and dies.



However I don't remember electing them-

or asking them to make such distinctions.



A uniform is just a fabric,

however it is the only fabric mightier-

then a gun and renders the wielder-

immune to murder prosecution.



Perhaps we should start electing the naked to office.

I've never seen a Halloween,

just a birthday gone astray.



While others trick or treat,

I blow out my candle and make a wish,

wishing to live another day;

Unrecognized and unknown,.



While kids would eat their candy,

I would sit and weep,

in my little corner of a four wall cell,

laboriously breathing the stagnant air amidst,

recollecting on my past.



I was born on this day,

I was born yet no one noticed,

they went about their day at ease,

as if I didn't exist.



Leaving me alone in darkness,

alone to cuddle against the black unknown,

clutching a matchbook cover and a candle (no cake)

I was born alone this day,



...so my tears put out the matchbook fire,

the salt water puddle collecting at my feet,

this is the day of my birth (I howl)

my tear strewn face in shambles,

in contrast before the cold dead moon.



My birth date reflects my misery,

I was born on Samhain, the day of my crumbling grave-

...and happiness will always elude me.

COMMENTS

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analisa
03:20 Oct 17 2010

I like this one alot. It's sadness speaks to me. Birthdays that fall on holidays are horrible because the rest of the world celebrates and you garner no attention. I have family who deal with such issues... we make a point to have a b'day AND a holiday...

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POST COMMENT

I wanted to write an essay but an essay's just no fun, for poetry and prose are my only

number one. I sadden up the rhetoric and I stiffen up my mood because if I were homeless

and I died, I'd be buried in the nude. I'd have my corpse dumped in a landfill to rot with

no respect. I am not a human being, what can one expect? The people with a dollar get a

gravestone and a flower, with picturesque scenery and a mob of crying citizenry. What

would I get if I were homeless, but buzzards buzzing hungrily. When did the human line

diverge to separate one person from next in ways so absurd? When did paper start to

personify the human being? Should I open up my wallet and talk to a piece of paper? Do

George or Abe have words of wisdom from beyond the grave, channeled by green ink on paper?

I highly doubt it but I've been proven wrong before. All the more, dying while homeless is

about as important as a dog's feces and is scooped up with a shovel in the night.

Shouldn't human beings get more respect then that? A fancy body bag, a few words of

kindness from the heart, perhaps a prayer. They just dump you in a hole as if you were

never there. Proof that this human system wasn't built with humans in mind, It was built

with objects in mind. Objects rule the world and we are it's paupers, cavorting ignorantly

into our graves...in a giant landfill.

Isolation,

it is poison,

yet inevitable cohesion-

of despair.



Despair that people wear,

off the coat rack,

and into hell...



...on the wings of judgment, expectations,

(and dead air)



Isolated in the lungs, regurgitating vomit,

(Still unsung)



The Social Classes fall apart in isolation-

instead of unity.



Giving rise to a suicide epidemic on the rise...



...the climax of despair comes alive.

October first, October last,

woe the year that left so fast;

eternal night that fills it's spawn

with caressing light from not so long.



Leaves fall wilted, ashes left,

the sidewalk stained with dead carcass...

...debris from not so long,

It's an eternal song...

...that lives within us all...



...In October.