There It Is – Eduard Dantes

There is a type of  sadness

Where music is meaningless sound,

Stars are but chalk dust on an endless blackboard,

And poems that made you feel

Happy, miserable, angry, pensive, grateful, flabbergasted, loved, loving or struck with awe

Are but etchings on pieces of putrefied wood.

 

It is a kind of sadness

Striking anywhere,

Never holding fast,

Just lingering…without explanation, genesis or consummation…

 

And then there is a similar type of elation

Brought about by a chord

Or a spark

Or a long forgotten word.

 

It is a kind of happiness

No smile can describe,

It doesn’t judge

It just is…without explanation, genesis or consummation…

 

Then there is a mix of the two…

Where songs are meaningfully meaningless,

Stars are wondrous stories that will never be told,

And poems are a confused mess of insanity

 

Sparks can be seen flying

Towards logs,

Chords heard crackling in flames

Spark lit on kindling

And words seen fading

In the cooling embers of a dying blaze

That once burned in the fireplace of life.

 

Or perhaps there is

Only sadness or happiness,

Everything or nothing;

Hate or love,

Ice or fire,

 

And never a mix of the two;

Save in the place

Of ash and dirt and water and seed.

eduard696dantes

his name rhymes with ‘mince’. He’s rarely without a notebook and can usually be found next to the closest bottle of red wine. Previously a writer for The Roehampton Lane Journal.

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