I had this... weird dream where I was laying in a bed, I could barely open my eyes but I knew the voice of the person sitting beside me. My head hurt so terribly, I knew I was dying or something to that. The voice talked to me calmly, and we talked about aging. "Come," he said to me "Even you would try to prevent aging, wouldn't you?" "No," I returned weakly "I feel a person should be proud of the lines on their face, the gray hairs on their head, it's a sign of wisdom. It says to the world, "I have lived long and well." Besides, I don't think anyone here has plans for me to make it that far." "No more of your Morbid Platitudes!" he exclaimed almost angrily. "Sounds like something for you to write." Said I. "What?" He retorted "Morbid Platitudes.." There in my dream I ran off a few lines of this poem to my "friend". To which he responded: "You're a writer..." "Thanks to you." was my reply. And then I woke up and finished the poem.
Morbid platitudes linger in blood soaked air these broken metaphors of existence. Caught between worlds neither dead nor alive in the gray space wander. Tear stained faces attached to iron tracked arms blood dripping down from wounds unhealed even in death becomes a morbid platitude of a lifeless existence.
I think it was important to this man that I write down this thing. Even if it's not my best work. I wish I had opened my eyes far enough to see him. Because I know I knew his voice. I just don't know where from. sweatdrop
~Spiriti~
River Song PhD · Fri Aug 01, 2008 @ 11:17am · 0 Comments |