3 Poems: Is it true after, On Pond (at 15), Abstract and Dissonance

Is it true after

Is it true after the end comes repetition?

The Universe always knows more.

Sun’s mingle with the emeralds

As I see everything which is me:

The autonomy is always engulfed

And you roll past the dead to be alone:

A breath finally taken alone.

Is it true after the end comes repetition?

Is it true after you’re gone

Finding the secret from stars you paint,

Rolling off without thinking,

You succumb to cross-ways of hourglasses?

Is it true after we’re done

Creating another death for our life to seize,

Another vision no other has ever seen,

No theme will be attached to the end of you?

Is it what it is or what it will be?

The concrete line of the ever flowing sea,

An opportunity to do anything

To be everywhere, to know everything.

Is it true after the end comes repetition?

The Universe always knows more…

Do I create in total loneliness?

Or do I just have the potential to perceive this?

Negation is only one form of travel,

Escape from this and you’ll laugh harder than before.

Total stillness is the platform for afterwards,

The only platform to observe what was before; —

We imagine our lives, we define fate

And it follows us, a centre in space.

The Universe always knows more…

On Pond (At 15)

A wind stampedes

Over four deaths before time

Where all recedes

To ignite time.

The leaping echo

Transmutes more than one leisure,

The straight-faced let go

And become their treasure.

Nothing so sickly as adulthood,

A phase for childhood traumas

Shining as the Sun in our blood

Pretending to grow without cause.

The bald humour cattle

Chase themselves in sound,

Addicted to the rattle

Electrifying their life to sound.

All else forgotten

You pity the scream

Alone to enlighten

Yourself in a dream.

Abstract and Dissonance 

I grip to the cot and stay afloat
Tripping over stiff custard and soft flesh, 
I stand as an infant, fish-eyed sixteen, 
In a pen of dying babies.
Alone I scream, teethe, weep and bleed
Crinkled hairs and veins cripple under men
(This sick rocking- sweet cries and lullabies!) 
Never have my eyes seen the sky, or youth. 

To be mistaken for an eternal knight, 
Masqueraded by glittering silvers and vengeance
A wooden sword glistens with pink storms and Arabic clouds
Shaped by spacious hue.
The bark bites. Fake teeth ache, claiming they weep the dew of dreams
And they quake, shatter, stain and rot; 
Fungus grows on chips and plaque
To only be brushed by the wind, or tongue.

Guessing is a fools game, I jester
Spheres of content ignorance, small bells
Grow from my ears and the Sun heckles my name, 
I am burnt, born into a shade of light.
My words give life to death, my sight peels.
God's cheap rhymes? Or am I reading lullabies, 
The shadows of mine and orphaned leaves are indifferent
As is the bustle of a wings flap, or fall.

Now my teeth breathe and taste, sensitive to the winds
And every thought is golden, 
The plug sockets have been pulled, tripped, 
And the Sea floods my brain, rhythmic gushes.
Skulls have hardened to mollusc brass. All is heavy.
Cobbles melt to ice, heels split under horse shoes
Whispers of silence clog a storm, sharp clouds breed
Golden blood drips from the sky and forms a costume, or truth. 

I came to tackle demons, though blood curdles in the air
And softly ribbed palates of green, blue, red and orange
Levitate in sight, matched by crashing waves and sounds
That drown a laughing shadow. 
Everything is alive, tainted by melting fears of liquid
That harden upon the shore, kissing naked breasts on rocks
And bare shells that are slaves. I stare onto the waters skin
And see me, or nothing. 

The bones of meaning and purpose rattle in a closet
But the touch is the ears claim, 
Lilacs disperse into Indian spices for the breeze
And eternity bows its head. 
The music! Swift arrows of glass
Smash into shards as I fall, the heart cracks
And mislead rivers of shining blood form a mirror
Where lies live, or reflect.

I taste the abstracts of life, and listen to the untold dissonances of death
That exist in each other, a sphere of conquestial faith; 
Consequences are lived before, 
And hidden cows are praised. 
Each heartbeat is echoed by divine choirs and perfect rhythms
For perfection lies in the truth of you, 
And the drums are unseen in the lie of truth
As I will know in death, or love.

I fall from the cot and kiss water
Red sap sticks to the carpet
Grey to the heart and brain, 
I am no longer in vain.
A door opens, a figure comes towards me
I wail and breathe upon the face of death.
The waves never drown me, neither does sound
And I am held tightly by abstract, or dissonance.