Nothing encapsulates all that I feel.
No words will make emotions more real.
Naught that I say may more thoroughly express
All that’s inside, for which I am blessed.
I could whistle out loud, a champion whistler – it’s true,
But no whistles or words could be heard by you,
Caught as you are in a whorl of earth’s darkest matter,
You hear but don’t listen; thoughts twist, turn and scatter
Into the night where no blue skies are seen,
Ideas and reality, a fruitless dream.
Futility embraced in a cloak of confusion
All hope a fantasy, merely illusion.
I’m wary of others who view all life’s chances
As a fool’s flight of fancy,
To be dismissed as a fairy tale, an epic collusion
Of mind and reality, just a protrusion
Of self in a place where castles feel real.
I’d rather live there than have visions crushed under heel
By those who diminish all hope with a smile,
A patronising nod and a hail, all the while
They laugh inside at my mirth and belief
That only we are, of life, our own tormentor and thief.
I know too many that shrug at all prospects
Doomed into gloom by their limited aspects.
I find it so hard to be at their side,
They vacuum my hope, my beliefs from inside.
So better than dying to internal death,
I leave them to be, although they’re bereft.
I can’t convince by effort alone,
I can’t infuse what they’ve never grown,
That hopes and desires are what make us live.
Each day a blessing, an option to give
One more venture, another gamble with stakes
That enhance possibilities, if risks we will take.
I’m gambling on life and all joys it proffers.
If you must, stay without. But don’t scoff at my nerve
That jumps like a jockey on a thoroughbred of great worth,
Leaping at fences and hazards that birth
New opportunities, aspirations to beget.
I’m sorry for you. Hail fellow, well met.
scottishmomus 