With life not yet long
and with it bare
with life strung along
and with it there
without the semblance of a care
because we can breathe in easier the air
because we've had life all along
and life shall be long.
Do not leave when the light does not shine.
There are many hiding in the shadows.
So do not go, when the light is not mine.
Back to the grind,
but not back to them, will you go.
Do not leave when the light does not shine.
They'll wring your skin for a mere dime.
Keep them at a distance and blow for blow.
So do not go, when the light is not mine.
They'll try to lure you outside,
there is much to be had from you.
Do not leave when the light does not shine.
They want you, they want you sublimed
but they don't understand what you are to me.
So do not go, when the light is not mine.
I'll love you until the end of time,
even if you ignore this warning and leave.
Do not leave when the light does not shine.
So do not go, when the light is not mine.
The flower is not meant
to live past
very much at all.
It is a symbol of life that does not last.
But it still tries
because if your heart is pure, it will live, but if your heart is ugly,
it dies.
A winner
is not a winner
if he beats
on that title and course.
A sinner
is not a sinner
if he has
remorse.
A fire
is not a fire
if he refuses
to burn his flame.
A liar
is not a liar
if his falsehood and truth
are the same.
A reason
is not a reason
if it cannot
compel.
A season
is not a season
if it cannot against time
dispel.
And a loser
is not a loser
if he can say,
"They loved me."
I'm glad that I am
and that you are with me
and am I ever thankful that our feet picked up when we ran
far away, down and along that street.
The heads upon our shoulders
are gold and grand
for you lift my heart, from under boulders,
with but one hand.
But now, in Time's shadow do we lurk,
dreading its poisonous fog.
If ever I breathe that murk
and ingest that smog
then you'll cease, nothing to be or do.
So I'll swallow my fate,
think of you,
and keep my breath abate.
In the night,
all the people
are awake
with worry.
In the night,
all the children
are asleep
with none.
In the night,
all the lovers,
they play
with it.
In the night,
all the fears,
they become
real.
In the night,
all the minds
build better for
tomorrow.
In the night,
all the choices
don't merit their
consequence.
Because in the night,
we are free.
If I was to find me, myself alone
then it is something not much I would mind
loneliness, that dark shadow over me
because it takes all sorts and every kind
to invest in such that piece of a stock
whose plummeting is far too overdue.
Not to worry, I'll keep it under lock
though, a guardian of secrets in you.
But for every misdirection I take,
you must take and serve a burden equal
to the struggling I'll impose, wrath I make,
foul cut on the throat, all this and more I'll do
over again, until it consumes you.
Whenever I go out
all the kids and folk
are jealous and shout
their anger at being broke
for they believe it is I, me
who is to blame
for all their poverty
and unabashed shame.
They want my life
but they don't realise the uptake
of people who'd easily pull a knife
and push and push and shove me until I break.
It's not really my fault
but I can't keep from feeling this,
this deep and underlying ravenous guilt
that eats away at me, makes me long for the bullet's kiss.
I wish you could see my face,
then you'd know my sincerity
but if all you have are my words in place,
then your doubts increase with severity.
Anything I can do to put them at rest,
allay,
away,
you know I'd do it, and I'd do it best.
If you’ll allow me, I’d like to tell you of a few things, ones that if you were born too recently, you may have difficulty grasping. You see, the world wasn’t always so technologically advanced and there were more colors on the earth than just a decaying brown and more in the sky than a murky polluted blue that looks more like a perpetual cloud of ruin hanging overhead, casting its shadow despairingly on a race that betrayed its trust. You’ve probably never heard of purple or orange; especially if you’re further from The Center which was once a great city of promise. The most exotic colour those folk have seen is likely a teal blue in a rare and unused reservoir of water. But I imagine you’re probably thinking, “What does this old piano think it’s doing? Trying to talk to me about colour when it’s nothing more than black and grey, or is that white?” Well, I’ll tell you. You have all made a dreadful mistake; one erroneous and terrible. I fear you won’t be around much longer to continue making mistakes if you do not amend your actions.
I might not be able to get through to any of you youngsters, but what of a flower? …You mean to tell me you don’t even know what a flower is? They were possibly the most lovely things in the world; breaths of fresh nature and ambient guardians of the original world. Although they were easily exterminated this time around, they once were a prosperous kind, yet inanimate. They might not have had a detectable consciousness to your people, but they surely did have a soul. I’ll tell you of the tragedy that befell the last earthly domain, whether or not you’re much that interested.
Hundreds of years ago, I think around the time of 2112, there was a sanctuary by a foreign name in a language long dead to you that held the meaning ‘to dedicate’. It possessed a precious pool of water, which they called a lake, and was part of a project to set aside patches of land to keep balance with the industry overtaking a larger percent of Earth. I was a part of that project, set in the sanctuary to encourage free thought. For a time, people came to visit me and tried their luck at the music that they had already began to lose hold of. However, that time was brief.
The lake was beautiful, filled with greenery about the plains and reeds overtaking the bank of the lake, coming to a halt beneath the short dock employed at the lake’s mouth. On one side of this dock, there lie a flower with petals pink and lavender tipped to accentuate its peaceful mind. This mind was as diverse as any and receptive to all views, as one should. Across the way, on the other side sat a glowing mushroom of orange with red splotches who was good friends with a fearful bee who lived alone; this was due to the effective extermination of all other bees that he narrowly escaped. He owed his life to the mushroom that sternly hid him from harm during this blight of insecticide. One day, the bee flew over to the mushroom and excitedly spoke of the flower on the other side. Neither of them had noticed her before. He told the mushroom of its beauty and the mushroom, enraptured with imagination, asked the bee to send the flower the kindest words imaginable.
The bee hurriedly buzzed across the underside of the dock to the flower, with hope that he may make another friend. As not to frighten the flower, the bee slowly approached her while saying, “Hello!” as non-threateningly possible. The flower turned and let out a gasp of surprise but politely returned the greeting, “Oh, hello there,” and asked, “Who might you be?” The bee was pleased that the flower hadn’t been frightened by his arrival. “I’m a friend, or I mean, I’d like to be.” This was the only bid for friendship the flower had ever received, and it was one she wasn’t willing to give up so quickly. “Well, of course!” she blurted out but then trailed off self-consciously, “Although I don’t understand why you’d want to be. Not even the toad did." Saddened by this, the bee reassured, “My friend, the mushroom, and I think you’re a lovely creature. You’re beautiful, you seem to be nice as well, and you’re not afraid of a bee like me. I see no reason why anyone wouldn’t want to be your friend. There’s nothing like you!”
“I don’t really know either…” she started, but the bee interrupted, “Either way! You have the two of us now and that’s all you’ll need.” The flower bashfully smiled and thanked the bee before he flew away.
The mushroom heard a buzz and turned back to see the bee coming back from visiting the flower, so the two quickly hurtled into detailing the visit.
“What was she like?” the mushroom inquired.
“She was really nice! I mean… she did seem sad but that’s nothing our friendship can’t fix.” the bee said, musing to himself. “But I wonder if there’s any way we can move her over here.” He flew around the lake, searching for anything he could use to rig something to move the flower over safely to their home. Nothing he saw was of much use, sadly, as the people around the land had already embraced a culture that thoroughly disposed of anything they deemed useless; even their own people.
Giving up, he returned to the mushroom. “I couldn’t find anything,” he sighed, incredibly disheartened. “Don’t worry about it, she’ll be just as fine over there.” the mushroom reassured. The bee muttered, in thought, multiple things that were indiscernible but the mushroom finally heard, “Maybe the flower will know of something?” As soon as the bee wondered that, he flew back on over to the flower; only to encounter a horrifying sight.
Soon after the three had become friends, before the mushroom and the flower had the fortune to meet, the reserve had been violated and steamrollers invaded from every direction. The mechanical giants crushed trees and smashed bushes without so much as a second thought. The bee turned to warn the mushroom but flew right into a mist of pesticide that was being sprayed in the grass underneath him in copious amounts to ease the task of preparing the land to be built upon. After all, it’s easier to uproot the dead.
The mushroom had yet to notice any of the destruction behind him across the way and was wondering what was taking the bee so long. This curiosity was cut short when a beast of a lawnmower erupted from the starting end of the dock and he realized that the reserve wasn’t so sacred anymore. This large nightmare impeded before him and the mushroom accepted his fate, but regretted that he didn’t have the chance to meet the flower before death. Maybe, after that, he could still meet her, but I can’t say for sure. Right as he felt the mower hit his stem, he heard a scream across the way from the flower and wished he could be there to ease her pain. Then his mind went black.
If you’re still listening, I commend you for staying with me this long. After the mushroom, bee, and flower died, the rest of the lake followed suit with the trees being felled by monstrous automated axes and bushes being burned. That day, I heard the cries of many living things ring out all across the lake. I wished so deeply that I could help them, but I’m a mere piano and could do nothing but play them music as I watched them go. Do you know how painful it is to have a soul and not be able to move but sit there and watch vile soulless beings move about freely while taking life? That was the last day these keys sounded a single note.
In the days the followed, the remaining decomposing material was dredged up from the soil and scraped out of sight by many loaders on the grounds. I was alone in that place, a sole piano left behind because the people who had destroyed my home didn’t really have any idea of what to do with me. I stayed there for a few years watching the sun rise and set every dawn and dusk, because they were the only beauties left in my world. I longed to speak with them, to know if they felt the same about people as I did. Probably not, I had learned from many scholars that played me that the sun and moon had never carried people like Earth, that this was a special place. It’s not all that special anymore, if you ask me. One year, construction crews poured into the dead land and built from the ground up a city that would probably never know of the pain that I faced. I resented these people, this city, and all that would live here for the years to come.
I’m glad that you found me though; it’ll let me move on peacefully. Almost as peaceful as that lavender I saw many years ago. That doesn’t matter to you though. You might not think much for the words of a piano, but one day when you’re last of humanity and dying alone in a heap of trash much similar to this one you find me in, you’ll have to ask yourself whether or not all this degradation was worth it. Maybe you’ll see how foolish you’ve been.
In between this sentence,
I've left a semblance
of the intelligence
and ignorance
I left with you, you left with me
another mood to be
as everything is left to remembrance
and emotion is the existence
of every apprehension
in this very sentence.
theartofmadeline
stormborns
areudirty
kaledo-art