#Philosophistication

 

Narrator:

Walking through town and glancing

through windows; a movie plot

is shown on an old television screen;

 

In a Deep Voice…

“We unfolded the scrolls and

danced to the rhythm of thought,

loved our worlds as others’ fell

victim to oblivion; lost, the world

was too dark for a candle to stay

lit, so she shone my darkest of

thoughts, unentangled my identity

from my squibbish font, and found

a young boy still holding onto

ideals of beauty and futility;

yet it was never beautiful

from the joys being sang

in the mornings, for the joys

sang in the morning masked their

mourning, the rape and the death

of daughters daunted their

direction to divinity, so they fell

for an instant illusion, it was

never about the philosophies and

the beauty of some democracy

and cosmic sorcery, but it was about

the broken humanity harvesting

identity from the external than

the internal sovereignty; so

horoscopes they saw fit to be, she

sang love songs while chaos

brewed on my earlobes, while

my eardrums summoned a meeting

of chaotic reasoning, she kissed me

while a war was waged between

the colonies situated on my tongue,

it was the darkness that made us

distinct from the world’s crowded

substance, even though we glowed

and lacked any figment of imagination,

we allowed ourselves to imagine

our pure existence, it was that;

us imagining our own purity, yet

everyone saw us existing, in a

slight century we found ourselves

forgetting how we existed, we found

ourselves lost in our own Oblivion,

on the brink of pure insanity,

I and my lover of sorts were

redefining our identities, she

questioned my existence and

the existence of our emotional

connection, she touched and pinched,

bit and licked, slapped and kissed,

punched and hugged, she could not

find my flaw, but then who had

imagined the other, the world,

me or her? We boiled down our

existence into a conclusion of

self-inflicted and self-indulged

insanity, she looked at me and

I looked at the world as it looked

upon her, an ouroboros I could

not detach.

 

She loved in fear of her

nonexistence, I loved her for

the fear of losing her, it

was mere fear meandering

between two lumps of hot air,

it was those morning kisses

that lacked depth, and the

everyday routines that allowed

us to believe we could live,

it was that simplistic breeze by the

windows that made us believe

we were meant to be; the mere

fallacy of ecstasy leading to

sentimental sanity, in those

instances our reality formed

and formed and we held firm

to the thought of us being

undoubtedly Gods, entities with

feet crumbling anthills, thus

we were gods, gods writing our

own Odysseys and giving forth

narratives, and yet we were

mere captives with stones and

pebbles to worship our form,

we were lonely, too lonely

to foresee what our acts would

give rise to after we had lived,

so we made temples, symbols

and made future civilizations

believe in our tales as true

descriptions of what was and what

is to be and we chuckled and laughed

and chuckled under the shade

of barren trees, held hands

when happiness swallowed us,

danced to the sounds of peace,

we danced and danced, through

our dance wars were waged between man

for the stones and pebbles we had

made, the worship brought

warships and slaveships, the

enslaved and the enslavee prayed

to us for a favour we could not

give, they stabbed and slaughtered,

shot and formed narratives about

who was nearer to our form, they

chose themselves as chosen, supreme

and others were meant to be

fiends or apes to roam around

whilst they sipped on their bliss,

as we danced we watched how

their hate grew to consume and consume,

soon their fall would be!

 

The dance stopped, we froze,

she looked at me and mourned,

she wept, spoke of how me

and her could not be.

Then the revelation took

form and we saw; I was

the Politics of it all, she was

the Belief of it all,

and the world was the Logic

of it all; I glared at the world,

and the world glared at her as she

glared at me: Politics focused on

Logic as the Logic focused on

Belief as Belief focused on politics;

an ouroboros the writer could not

decrypt.”

 

Narrator:

Was this a love Story between

Politics and Belief?

 

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

 

Artwork by Anton Semenov

 

℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗

 

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