So apparently I'm emo now
I always poem about the new years.
Also, everything is ridiculously purple/emo/flat. Crit? Please? *begs*
The world ends outside this ring of light.
the trembling blur of the candle flame
touches tentatively at our skin,
fashioning shadows out of the angles of our bones.
the shocking white of our faces
mirrors the wax,
solid to liquid to solid,
our lips are pink,
holding the memory of redness,
and the flame is yellow
with the struggle to survive.
The darkness, though,
isn't a colour at all.
We exhale, our breath turns to a wisp
as if to say
"I am here, too,
I exist,
I am important."
Only to vanish,
a tragic satire
made more so by repetition,
and we speak words,
echoed to the sky,
but the nothing
swallows our prayers.
The wick of the candle shrinks
with the effort of supporting fire,
our backs are cold,
while our fronts are tinged with warmth
that reaches out to brush against us,
only for an instant before shyly drawing back.
Knees burn against the hard floor,
and we let out a stream of air,
experimental,
just to watch the flame flicker,
just for the second of black that results,
but never resigning ourselves fully
to the absence of light.
And between the emptiness
and the menial bareness
we choose,
as if there really ever was a choice,
hands out, huddling,
'round that single candle flame
that fights back the end of the world.
Time passes, not caring that we notice,
that we wave it on with a flourish,
no, because Time is a drunkard,
stumbling along in the same sort of way,
over and over and over,
filled with our expectations and regrets,
intoxicated by our solemn worries,
encouraged by our cheers
while not understanding a single word
of the many that tangle together.
To Time we are pealing noises and pretty lights,
flashing, there and gone,
crowding, confusing,
louder at times, quieter at others,
an inexplicable wave of happiness and depression,
and we giggle at Time, we laugh and guffaw,
what a fool, what a fool, how silly the past,
how promising the future,
repeat, repeat, repeat, until the future is the past,
and just as silly,
until births become deaths
and memories are forgotten,
because nothing changes when it's supposed to,
but everything does when it's not,
and it's just Time,
fumbling along, knocking over tables,
not distinguishing between
those who become angry
and those who just laugh harder.
and poised for something,
something great, something grand,
we note, with prophetic certainty,
that there's nothing to do except wait
for Time, foolish Time.
and soon we must stop waiting,
minds set on what was,
but others will take our place
mirroring our movements,
as if they're ritualistic,
or necessary, even.
In reality we are the fools
and Time is truly brilliant
for never noticing,
never caring,
and being perpetually drunk.
Also, everything is ridiculously purple/emo/flat. Crit? Please? *begs*
The world ends outside this ring of light.
the trembling blur of the candle flame
touches tentatively at our skin,
fashioning shadows out of the angles of our bones.
the shocking white of our faces
mirrors the wax,
solid to liquid to solid,
our lips are pink,
holding the memory of redness,
and the flame is yellow
with the struggle to survive.
The darkness, though,
isn't a colour at all.
We exhale, our breath turns to a wisp
as if to say
"I am here, too,
I exist,
I am important."
Only to vanish,
a tragic satire
made more so by repetition,
and we speak words,
echoed to the sky,
but the nothing
swallows our prayers.
The wick of the candle shrinks
with the effort of supporting fire,
our backs are cold,
while our fronts are tinged with warmth
that reaches out to brush against us,
only for an instant before shyly drawing back.
Knees burn against the hard floor,
and we let out a stream of air,
experimental,
just to watch the flame flicker,
just for the second of black that results,
but never resigning ourselves fully
to the absence of light.
And between the emptiness
and the menial bareness
we choose,
as if there really ever was a choice,
hands out, huddling,
'round that single candle flame
that fights back the end of the world.
Time passes, not caring that we notice,
that we wave it on with a flourish,
no, because Time is a drunkard,
stumbling along in the same sort of way,
over and over and over,
filled with our expectations and regrets,
intoxicated by our solemn worries,
encouraged by our cheers
while not understanding a single word
of the many that tangle together.
To Time we are pealing noises and pretty lights,
flashing, there and gone,
crowding, confusing,
louder at times, quieter at others,
an inexplicable wave of happiness and depression,
and we giggle at Time, we laugh and guffaw,
what a fool, what a fool, how silly the past,
how promising the future,
repeat, repeat, repeat, until the future is the past,
and just as silly,
until births become deaths
and memories are forgotten,
because nothing changes when it's supposed to,
but everything does when it's not,
and it's just Time,
fumbling along, knocking over tables,
not distinguishing between
those who become angry
and those who just laugh harder.
and poised for something,
something great, something grand,
we note, with prophetic certainty,
that there's nothing to do except wait
for Time, foolish Time.
and soon we must stop waiting,
minds set on what was,
but others will take our place
mirroring our movements,
as if they're ritualistic,
or necessary, even.
In reality we are the fools
and Time is truly brilliant
for never noticing,
never caring,
and being perpetually drunk.