Sweet Indolence (poem)

Three spectres on a Grecian Urn-

No – that is unfitting.

Rather, three ghosts in the night,

Pass by my shelter.

At first glance, I know them.

Dearest Poesy leads the march,

Showing little love for inaction.

A protest of wills, of goals.

Frightening Ambition soon follows,

Bickering of what could be great.

“You could be Keats!”

Shy an indirect love drifts behind,

As fickle as she is,

She demands action,

The donation of ink.

Second glance, I know them not.

Bandages wrap around them,

Perfume is sprayed,

But Death's scent remains.

Preserved to defeat time,

But all methods fail.

Bandages fall and burn,

Revealing the monster beneath.

Poesy, once a fair maid, now decayed,

Repulsive like the thought of separation.

A step back-

But she comes closer.

Ambition seizes my attention.

She bends her head.

From her ears pour dread,

Dead butterflies,

Suffocated from capture.

Love has changed not.

Rather, she has broken my facade.

Her eyes dart about,

Indecisive and absolutely fickle.

Potentials appear, and she shows me

myself. Rushing from one,

To another,

To another,

To another,

Without end,

Except for death.

I risk not a third glance.

Indolence may do this,

But Love remains as such.

She is my heart,

Fully intact, but full of explosives.

Fickle in deciding who to be the victim,

Determining them all.

Ambition may release the living,

And allow them to fly.

Just as Poesy may change again,

Into a fair maid.

But Love, my Love,

Will forever be like this:
Indolent and fickle.

-Zero

We Are Not The Forsaken (Poem)

We are not the forsaken,

Those who are without hope,

Those who have been left behind and forgotten,

Those who do more harm than good.

When terror strikes and explodes,

We do not abandon each other.

Doubling back despite the danger,

We are together.

Brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers,

Aiding one another selflessly.

Might terror strike again,

We will return,

Leaving no one behind.

But our mirrors lie.

They twist our self-perception.

Where there is light,

We see nothing.

Where there is dark,

We see everything;

We see the forsaken.

Corpses climbing cliff,

Destined to destruction,

Dropping stones that strike,

Those who still have a pulse,

Seizing their hearts,

Capturing their minds.

All this for one purpose,

To make them like us,

Yet we, the so-called corpses,

Fear the great blade of mediocrity.

These corpses are the forsaken.

We are not them.

We are vividly alive,

Dodging the stones sent from the few.

Occasionally we are struck,

But a hand returns us.

The mirror lies.

Where we see a corpse,

There is the contrary.

The darkness is not winning.

The battle tips its hat to us,

And the future looks to us for guidance.

We fear we are not enough,

That our parenting will fail.

We doubt our goodness.

We doubt our ability.

Our predictions call for a storm,

Where we may summon a sun.

The world is sick.

We may be sick.

Time will see us healed,

Through death or antidote.

We simply must try.

We may fail,

But more importantly,

We may succeed.

We are not the forsaken.

We are the future.

-Zero

Waiting for a Bus (poem)

      The shelter protects me from the storm

That churns and drenches the world.

      This shelter keeps me warm,

But one day, my life will be unfurled.

      The bus will come,

That which I have waited for.

      I feel the destination, but am numb

To all but an unfamiliar door.

      It is then I must face the thunder,

And strike down the lightning.

      No longer will I be able to go under,

And pretend that I am nothing.

      My existence will be challenged.

My meaning will be attacked.

      I will become unhinged,

For all that I lacked.

      Darkness will bury me,

And the rain will seal the tomb.

      Defeat is all that will be,

And I will yearn for the womb.

      To Hades, Zeus will send my soul,

Through the depths I will wander.

      I may emerge, once I am whole,

Strong and yet tender.

      The bus will one day reach the end

And I, a changed person, will depart.

      I will walk to my next place around the bend,

Where the cycle will one day restart.

-Zero

The Spark of Prometheus

       White fog, created by heavy snowfall, concealed my destination, and my progress. The numbing cold slid through my thick wool coat, and cruelly sealed itself within my defences. My identity was made a question by the snow white hood, but the question was the answer. Vague trees whispered the legends of the land into my ears. I avoided the contemplation that would lead to belief. All that I was had to remain doubtful if I were to survive.

       I rode upon my family's last horse, Agatha. Death had taken her mother through sickness. Our fathers had attempted the same journey through the land of rock and snow. Their corpses most likely lay buried under the suffocating snow, far below the ever rising surface. In my boyhood, I sought to replace my father, along with Agatha's. When the idea became impossible, I sought nothing less than to discover him and rescue him. My uncle had been wise in keeping me on the farm. The trip would have provided me with no less than the same fate. 

       The path that I followed was no more than invisible to the eye. It was rumoured that ancient tribes once inhabited the snow-consumed land. A road was made through constant movement, leading from my village to the temple deep within the blinding woods. Words had been passed down from each generation, telling of the story of the tribes long gone. War had destroyed all participants. Legend told that following the war, the frozen ghosts of the tribes engulfed the land, creating the white fog of heavy snow. No adventurers returned from the blinding woods. The great scythe was all that awaited them. 

       I was unsure what I intended on finding. The question of survival hung in the air like my uncle did when he was discovered. Uncertainty whispered the possibility that I had not intended on returning to the village. Perhaps I had gone out into the woods searching for the scythe, so that I could slit my throat and be lost forever. But as I forged a path, direction came naturally. I soon found that direction is worthless without proper resources. Agatha grew weak with hunger, and fatigue. The air was ice, and sliced through the two of us. We fell from the path and found shelter under one of the many indistinguishable trees. It was there that crisis found us. It sneaked within us and pulled a dagger from its waist. Powerless to calm ourselves, we awaited the blow of panic. However, an idea sparked and brought us to life. The rations had nearly been finished, and it seemed certain that we would not make a return trip. My mind raced with concepts of what may lay before me. I provided Agatha with the last of her feed, and finished the rations with great haste. 

       The suggestion of continuing was not verbalized, for fear of realizing the doubt. The trip began again, with renewed, but limited, energy. As we made our way through the blinding forest, guilt overcame me. The attachment that I shared with Agatha lead me to bring her along with me. It seemed to me that I had brought her to her death, when it was I who wished to die. The spark within my heart had not been extinguished, much to my dismay. No longer could I simply resign to death and allow him to take us. No, I was bound to do battle with the immortal killer. To many it would seem insane to only attempt to survive to protect a mere horse. Sadly, to many the value of life only stretched so far as to include humans and none else. 

       As we strove to complete the path, the world strove to change itself. Her hooves ceased to be absorbed by the cloud ground. Visibility grew like an oak alone in a field. Change shattered the redundancy of our journey. My numb skin came to recognize the world once more, as if I had been awakened after centuries of rest. Agatha's pace increased in speed as we came to find that which we had sought for so long. 

       My lips cracked and bled warm blood as I attempted to speak. “Agatha, I see it. Gaze upon the spark on the horizon. It banishes all the snow to the frame of my vision, and reveals to me the path long hidden by centuries of concealment! Perhaps there we may sustain ourselves, and perhaps even manage a return to our warm home!” It was not long before the great ancient temple entered the material world. Tall stone pillars marked the entrance, and carried upon themselves the single piece of stone that constituted the entire ceiling. It was an open temple, with length and height, but no protection from the wind and snow. Unwavering flames bled from the torches on the pillars. Heat washed over us, and permitted us to rest. The Temple of Prometheus had been found by no else but myself. 

------------------------------------

        This piece was inspired by one of WriteWorld's Writer's Block posts, where they post a picture or phrase to begin a story with. I very well could have continued for quite some time, but decided against it. I may expand on this story another time, however. I will include a link to the tumblr post that lead me to write this story. I recommend clicking on the photo, as it will redirect you to the Deviant Art original. If you happen to like the illustration, then please let the creator know. I suppose that will be all. Until next time,

-Zero

Writeworld link: http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/51884601358/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words