Bliss Hallowed

How blissful life would be if she was never born,

From a cloud ready for thunder, a lull before the storm,

A lullaby in waiting, a cradle yet to fall,

A summer almost over, a winter baby, small.

Everything is overrated, like a cycle of houseplants scratched into a CD,

A lint roller on a cat's tongue, a fur-ball brawling with a tumbleweed,

A torn cloth torn from the same torn cloth

can’t buff a disk or clean a kitten, 

But when soaked into a molotov, makes gibberish of what she’s written, so…

How blissful all the dissonance would be if it was not?

How effortless she’d freewheel in a place without a thought,

How never ending nothing would, without a brake to stop, 

Waiting for some something to wind its way into a knot, tied 

where ashes whip up in the wind, but only act as proof 

that something will grow from its soil, the land will prosper where once spoiled,

Roots where nothing needs to just stop, and petals needn’t sprawl,

Words are filled with wonder, and just how wonderful 

all the little things that twinkle are, calling out for eyes and winks,

But she still thinks of drifting, disconnecting all her links that chain her to a simple life, 

And all its simple things,

And fantasise of her demise, with every trinket she gathers, every bookmark, bead and ring.

She holds them in her hand, and jingles them to timid sounds,

Dot to dots their divots and reads a future in her palm.

How blissful life would be, if she never felt at all,

The abstracts in the stark contrasts, the wind that lifts to fall?

But boring is the straight path, cutting oxbows to false loops,

And tedious the teddy bear, who sits up there and mopes

about the years spent wasting journeys, Jung and silly tropes,

Stories woven into chaos, shadowed tales of neuralyzers and coke:

Astro boy and terf, her poker face perturbed, she weeps as though it’s her, 

Though she knows it isn’t worth the choice.

She stands on fake grass and steals his voice.

She understands that lies can be sans words, long as they’re the loudest noise,

So she makes the loudest noise.

And it is bliss.

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It's not what I promised, but it's consistent. The weeks remain busy and the days teeter like clouds between an uncertain sun. Work is an easy out to avoid delving into ideas whose roots are that of cuttings: untainted by aged growth and darting out from several nodes. As always, I will remain vigilant in bringing pieces that contain less expressive substance, and more of the gritty morality. I will update this post tomorrow to add audio as it's a part of these posts that has been well-received. Thank you for reading.