Whaling on the fires of the gone

A NOTE: Another rambling poem. This is a good example of a poem that probably would've been great if I'd stopped while I was ahead. I could still shear off the crappier parts, but this poem was what I needed it to be at the time... venting and silliness.

Whaling on the fires of the gone Silence the song plays on Burn on, stars, burn on Lampshades and cavalcades Escapades and palpitates Through the pain glass window I walked She guided me She hided me She lied and we split apart But who was the truth, and who more the sleuth? Parting the crowd, speaking aloud, I came here. Listening, glistening, the sweat and tears And troubles and fears Melt in the deepening doom The alarms go off, but those of us scoff And sleep it off with a pillow for earplugs. Two, two, it seems a few But merely a couple cannot wake the giant. The zombies walk the graveyard’s route Leading ever onward towards the light, But the night is deep, the earth is steep And I could weep for the clouds blocking us. Thunder dies in the darkening skies Blessing the cursed ears with prophecy We might well make our own hell, Which serves the purpose just as well But that’s not to say there aren’t the bright ways, The glories of heaven seem miles away If we only stretch, we only reach The firmament our hearts would reach Under hill and over stone our arms ached, the children moaned All we came to find with work Were vague ideas too covered in murk To be the prophecy. “Hell,” she said, “the bastard took it!” Did he snitch it, did he crook it? Is a heart a thing to steal, Is there armor for such appeal? A mighty heart, both strong of valor, Good to weak and loving all, Is a heart that always breaks, The person, true, must take the fall, But living on when good is gone The victory lost, the battle drawn, The heart that breaks and mends again Is proof of good and strength within. I ramble most, I eat less toast But this is surely cause to boast, For if I ramble and I scramble eggs while eating toast far less, I have succeeded, though impeded, by making breakfast for a guest The guest who came may not like eggs They might like toast, and drink the dregs, But sometimes guests know what to say In early morn, near break of day, And breakfast makes itself for you The words come forth, and shine anew Things make sense and nothing’s wrong Come full circle, sing the song. Mark Burton 1/30/02