Thought

It looks like all I've been posting here recently is just poetry...I mean, I really do have a lot to say sometimes. Words can say better things, right? That's ridiculous, it doesn't even make sense. Words are the vehicles of our meaningfulness. Which sounds even more ridiculous since right now I'm simply being meaningless. Which brings us to the ultimate ridiculous conclusion: Meaningless has meaning, otherwise, how can we differentiate it from meaningfulness, right?

To know what's on my mind these days (and I'm pretty sure you don't want to) Google 'Tertium non datur', Latin for 'There is no third'. It's kind of fun reading this stuff, really.

Here's something I wrote recently:
In the darkened room they sat to talk,
Of wasted hours on a wasted land.
Of glorious pearls, of rotten gold,
Of dreams carved in the sand.

They talked for hours and moments passed,
Of a lady I've never seen.
A stranger devoid of emotion,
A poisoned beauty queen.

The winter winds ooze behind,
A withered petal in the haze.
A lonely robin, cold, falls dead,
I was lost in a maze.

My mind derails, my sight perceives,
Beauty strange to my eyes.
A white light reflected in,
The morning dew in a field of rye.

Alpha, Omega and they carry on,
In silence so you cannot hear.
They think, they laugh and then they stare,
And ask why I'm here.

I look at them with a reproachful gaze,
I knew not what to say.
There's nothing 'past' and nothing 'yet'
There's nothing but today.

The noise of the futile horn,
Fills my ears with a forgotten tune,
My memory recalls, I shed my tears,
Under a pearly-yellow moon.