Cradled in the Arms of the World – the writer’s demise

photo credit: Sreejit Poole
photo credit: Sreejit Poole

Rearranging misery into
pockets of tranquility,
he fell deep within the recesses
of his mental disposition
– not quite a peaceful meditation,
more like a mission to revisit
all of his bad decisions.
Days upon days
of arrogant decay
led to a mission of deliverance
through the path of dismay,
looking as he did with a
self-righteous contempt
for those he had dedicated
both his pen and his presence.
Where went the worship,
and the devotion
and the prayer?
Where went the love
deep inside
that he needed to share?
Where went the wisdom
coming straight from the spirit?
The wisdom was enmeshed
in a mission of egocentrism
– he needed to cut the mission
out of the wisdom
like a mental circumcision.
But the world
had him tied up and baffled,
had him surrendering to the hecklers,
had him wishing for more words
to describe what he was looking at
– standardized testing
had him writing like
every other lame duck hack
of systematized romance
– Would you like to dance?
Can I buy you a drink?
The tempest lay with the devil
on the shoulder of cowards
and she had him looking over the cliff
and wondering
if he could make the jump
– walking tall
but not mixing well,
brawling big
but not leaning in for the kill.
He could exert his will
if he had a reason,
but his intellect was bleeding
from the crime of neglect,
to resurrect he knew not how,
the strength of his determination.
Cradled in the arms of the world,
he was rendered senseless by his senses,
seeking to protect him
while actually leaving him
in a state of wretchedness,
confusing the attainment of desires
with blessedness,
as the weak waited with
open arms for some protection.
With a smirk void of apprehension
he claimed to save them
by offering up prettier bonds
with which to enslave them.
All the charms are gone
when discussing the rights and wrongs.
His center being the only center,
and his truth the only truth
he cast aside their desperation
that was seeking understanding
in the supposed maturity
of the devout,
and allowed his conceit
to engulf his clout.
Back door mischief
became the only witness
he was familiar with
– an all too familiar story
as time is never enough,
and then all of sudden too much,
to die a hero’s death
before catching one last glimpse
of a world that’s always
knocking at our door.

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