Saturday, August 1, 2015


Zephaniah
How can one write a song
When everything inside is dead
In place of Nietzshche’s song of killing God
I have murdered my own soul instead
It was too much guilt to kill the great Creator
The One that loved me so,
So I turned my gun onto my heart
And pulled the trigger
Countless times
I kept pulling and pulling and pulling and pulling
Until I felt nothing
No fun, no peace, no desire, no yearning
Nothing but a determination
To survive in perfection each and every single day
Yet perfection never came
Perfection never comes
Now I feel nothing
Not the pain of defeat
Not the joys of triumph
Not the torment of love
Nor it’s deep satisfactions
Not the love for my wife, my children
Only the hate for my enemies
This burns on the embers
Of my heart’s ashen stone
So my work here is gasping
Short, darkened groans
There is no song in all of that
No dancing, playful rhythms

I hear Zephaniah

I hear a singing
I feel the airy movements of dance above
Just like the butterfly’s wing that causes the maelstrom
I sense a great destruction, a ferocious, deep love
A destruction of all that is darkness
All that is hopeless
I see a great wind that will blow this away

I hear Zephaniah

A kindling has fallen on the embers


K, Duane Carter 7/14/15

No comments:

Post a Comment