Tag: Poetry

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Sazabi

Looking up from the bay floor of the base, it seemed so immense,
Its titanium red armour plating, intimidating in the bay lights,
The sounds of war, beam rifles and explosions begin outside,
One last battle, one last counter-attack, accomplish the mission,
The enemy is young and keen, advanced minds set on their task,
The pilot activates a lift and slowly rises to the cockpit,
The cockpit opens, sliding up and back with hydraulic hiss,
He enters, blonde haired, arrogant, and seated within the mighty head,
The cockpit closes and the pilot prepares for launch,
The huge unit steps onto the launch conveyer, bracing for launch,
The conveyer rumbles forward, then fires the machine into battle,
Engaging the enemy, the skilled pilot evades and destroys many,
At the culmination of the battle however, the great weapon is hobbled,
The pilot ejects, his fate unknown, Sazabi is discarded above the earth,
Once proud, the great red killing machine’s terrible reign has ended,
It floats silently, a slumbering red leviathan adrift in space.

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Pain and the White

A time awaits where pain is white,
Where days pass in landscape,
And faces once familiar, again delight,
Where youth is no longer pale and spector thin,
But you are celebrated, for all that you have been,
No longer are the daily toils prevalent,
Or the foul opinions of others relevant,
A time where the warm sun is on your face,
Where bright days with clear skies replace,
The anguish and the sorrow,
Where every day, holds a darker tomorrow,
That time awaits where pain is white,
But until then, every day is night.

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Realisation

Nobody cares about what you’ve done,
Do not hark on prior glories,
Because people only like to hear,
About themselves and their own stories,
None of us are anything special,
But some think that they’re more,
Than rotting flesh beneath the ground,
Or breakless wave upon the shore.

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Fools-Gold

New gold prospectors need to know,

That it has all been dug before,

Don’t disrespect gold merchants,

With the fools-gold that you own.

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Timeline

The weight of a lifetime, no child can carry,
Born by accident, disliked, held with contempt,
Loved by the two who practiced it,
Hated by the two felt shunned,
The choice was not the childs,
The future not his own,
True colours became prevalent,
When the two who loved became just one,
The old vipers chose their time,
And at the weakest point, they chose to run,
Alone the child went on,
Hardened to all family and their lies,
The child made two, who were used as weapons,
When a new grief took a toll,
The two shunned awaited, to finally play their roll,
Against the child who thought he’d felt new hope,
But instead, he felt the poison of their suiol,
They both ran too, but one cast shadows,
Over the new two who were born,
Betrayed by one, but not by the other,
An old man remains,
A victim of them all.

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When I die

I will die before my time,
At 3am my heart will fail,
It will read, I died in my sleep,
But I can assure you,
I will be wide awake.

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Starship

Vibrating ship engines hum gently,
Sleek panels, white and shimmering,
Reflecting bright starfield bursts,
Silently slipping through an interstellar expanse,
Internally cool, all occupants are draped in white,
Large bay windows framed by great white rooms,
Where the last remnants of mankind gaze out,
Into endless black sparkling emptiness,
Wondering where they will arrive next,
This sanitised environment, clean and carefree,
Is home, the earth is but a distant memory.

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The Poison

I refer to alcohol as ‘the poison’,
I’ve always had a problem with it,
The problem being, the freedom it gives me,
A freedom from myself, a release,
Yeah, I know,
And I agree, it is poison,
However, on one of ‘those’ evenings,
I’m clear, lucid, and hyper-focussed,
I can count and clearly see every pore of my skin,
I notice details I wouldn’t normally,
I can write and create things I wouldn’t normally be able to,
I can be another me, the internal me, freely,
Sadly at 51, I’m yet to learn how to achieve the same,
Without the poison.

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Unable

I can’t communicate well right now,
I feel closed off, irritable, unsocial,
July, the death month, has taken a toll,
The me I was a short while ago seems different,
I can’t explain the change,
I feel numb to the world,
Functioning is difficult, but I’m holding on,
Seeking comfort where I can,
My memory seems to be failing me,
I can’t remember everything,
I feel like my usual workday is suffering,
I don’t feel helpful to my immediate family,
Or as relevant, as I once was,
My numbness removes any self-empathy,
When I close my eyes,
I feel like I’m on my back,
Being lowered down a hole,
As the ground caves in above me,
And I scrape at the sides of my own grave.

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The Week is a Vampire

I sit alone in the dark, contemplating my fears,
The silence surrounding me is complete,
As the internal fan of the machine I type into hisses,
Warm air fills the room from a heating unit,
Right now, I’m calm, I want for nothing but time and peace,
But it is Sunday at 10pm, and I fear this calm won’t last,
The morning will bring the usual inescapable stresses,
The onslaught of outsiders indifferent to my struggles,
Five days locked into the iron mask of compliance,
I find it more difficult lately to cope within its confines,
For the first time in my life, I feel it constricting,
It takes so much for me now to deliver, there is too much,
There are too many demands, I can feel myself slipping,
I feel like a car whose interior light was left on overnight,
And nobody knows that by morning, I’ll have nothing left,
I feel powerless, all I can do is watch myself fade,
But it takes income to keep that heating unit running,
It takes great toil to keep that machine fan hissing,
The week is a vampire with an insatiable hunger,
And I willingly cast myself into its great maw to survive.