Ther Vine Keeper

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Tuesday, February 28, 2012

we believed . . . didn’t we

we believed

a dimensions apart
a world never capable
of being imagined
where all is surreal

miracles litter the way
and the middle eye
is one of manifestation
and all thoughts actualize

Alice knew not of this place
and Dorothy could not face it
and i long to taste it
as do all souls
once again

such things
as warmth and cold
exist not
and we forgot
what the absence of time feels like
haven’t we

in our now fantasy
we see through
kaleidoscope glasses
nothing is clearly defined
so we refine the illusions
with loosely gathered allusions

minds askew from reality
whatever that may be
and what do we truly believe
at our prime level
do we really understand
how to revel in joy
we branded rebels of the realm

at the helm of our consciousness
which i term my private asylum
there is a madman
standing in judgment
of things that do not matter

like the mad hatter
we pacify ourselves
with the changing of the costumes
or the parts thereof
we remain lost
tossed in the void
where we dream of a substance
we term life
which exists not
at any sustainable
where the insidious
become a ridiculous
in our conformity
to the programs
that are running in our heads

and here in this limited
exposure to self
we feel justified
because we have learned
how to manipulate the delusion
coming to an inane conclusion
that we are OK

we embrace ourselves in love
from the left hand
self condemnation and purgatory
ushered forth
from the right-mindedness
of our needs
viscerally so

and when i attempt to ask the question
“what do i know”
Truth is
if i can call it that
it is like the fat of the Lamb
up in smoke
just like David said it would be
in some Psalm or another
and my Mother
she never warned me about this

i kiss the bliss i never quite had
just like my Father, my Dad
who too yearned
to make a way
through this wilderness . . .
bless them

and the quest continues
and contextual fabrics
of my reality
being shredded
in my reflective examinations

the damnation of overt scrutiny
offers no solace
but for a blink of that eye
which is infected,
a Stye
blurring all perceptions
when i ponder eternity
and certainly with age
it gets no better
save when i lie
to self again

i hear the Dogs barking
would that be some sort of alarm
that the Thief has entered the gate ?

and men with undeterminable Egos
run to get their Capes
laced with a fear
and the need to show the world
we have some courage
to transform the norm
of our little selves
into Gods

i laugh at this juncture
for the tincture of truth
still burns the wound
as i contusivley observe
in my concussive state,
my own alacrity for stupidity
“Oh Quixotic One when will you get the lesson?”

so . . .
i grab my gun
loaded with subterfuge
and the deluge of reason begins
and in conclusion
i resolve this . . .
thou art my enemy,
my friend,

and the dichotomous ghost
awakens once more
and haunts my weary
tear laden soul
but i worry not
for the hole in my heart
does serve it’s purpose
alleviating the angst
i once so dearly cared about

i could simply say . .
“i don’t give a fuck”,
but that would be a confession
even my indifferent self
can not bare in the open,
the light
that transcends opposites
in my behavior

Man . . .i am still stuck
looking for a Savior

so i shout silently
that i not disturb your solemn rest
lest you are ready
for if we do chose to awaken
we must voluntarily
spit upon the graves
of who we used to be
or who you think
you may have been
for the many eons
we have slumbered
resting in an uncertain peace

and who was it that said
“the Least shall lead a nation”
and to my reasonable elation
i am cool with that
for it does appease some aspect
of this itch for
what lies beyond the door
of the horizons
we peer at
leer at
from our spat upon graves

behave the voice said
was that in my head alone
or did you hear the echo as well
of your own voice
in the empty halls
save for pictures and visions
of fading dreams

and as much as i deliberate
about the sheer ecstasy
of total liberation
there still resides my anguish
and i ultimately surmise
but one thing

and that is . . .
the sin of it all
we believed . . . didn’t we

© 28 February 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

"'I' lay down my life that i may pick it up again, for 'I' have the power to do so"


Janet Caldwell said...

I love the messages in your work...Thank you...xo

W. S. Peters, Sr. said...

i thank you Dear Janet. . .
i am humbled by your kind words
much love