Cimetière sans Nom
Talking to the vacant Pouring,
what no one hears
Memories, not amiss
Forgetting no fears
And that talk, it dies.
Getting back to self
Outer self, for world to see
Chores to do, results to show
Even to self, to fill the hallow
And that hallow, the vacant, it dies.
Search for life, light soul
The books of positivity
The words of saints, abegging
Wise letters of gold
Those books, words, letter, they die.
The time passing by
Divided, as if finite
The now, which matters
Others, to burn the lot
Easier said, yet time, it dies.
Occupying the vacant, in and out
The space, we think of our own
Encroached, with thoughts
Come frolic, some to moan
We think of our own, yes
Until the space, is no more.
The light of direction
The light of enlightening
The giver of life, when it takes instead
No hope to rescue
The fire, spent on dead
The light, the fire, just died.
Yet you look for
What lost long back
Expecting to get again
Trying the cliched hack
Bemoaning when drunk
Aware it won’t help
Hiding behind the laugh, when high
Cloud as smokescreen, when you fly.
The talk, the hallow, the letters
Died not in vain but just
The time, the space, the fire
No more in fist or dust.
Yet they exist, same place where buried
Same place where help high, once
Where they ruled the lives of mortals in disdain
And played their endgame
In the cemetery of no name.
