Take over our mind,
what causes us to go off course, is it ageing?
when the brain becomes fogged, no longer kind,
wondering who we are, what we’ve become
where are we going, what direction to run or,
When desperation sets in, life is no longer fun, the
past a blurred memory, no life to live now, memories
fading, when once we were filled with life and laughter
we’ve now become a dull soul, lost in ourselves, biding
our time, waiting for the incineration.
Yet, so pleasant to close our eyes and dream of yesteryear
when life was less complicated, worth living, full of surprise
with a family, a loving wife and children to
cradle, love and build a future for and with.
Then it crashes,
we’ve become alone, lost within our world of desperation.
All the dreams we once had come crashing down all around
us, whilst the tortured soul yields, begging for redemption
forgiveness, adoration. But who listens, who cares?
The stage is electric with actors playing their roles
wearing their tragic masks that adorn their scarred faces,
hidden in shame, dancing about us, mocking and whispering,
yet only we can feel our shame and pain, awaiting an encore,
they kneel with mocking grace.
Amazingly we can get use to being alone with one’s own
thoughts, no need to question or be questioned by others,
we think, sleep, eat and carry on our day, numbly aware
of our surroundings, muttering under our breath, how did
we become this far gone. The world was our stage, we
awaited the applause and a curtain call, now we act alone,
behind our mask of tragedy.
We see around us in this Hotel California the many lost
somebody’s lowered to a level they never expected, lost
like so many, their money, fame, stature and power
distributed among their pack, now they have nothing
but a lifeless future, no dividends to draw upon, nothing
but alone, lost and drooling in their soups, with caregivers
dabbing their chins.
Madness however does have a sympathetic kindness,
for one is lost in another world, hopeless, as it is, without
a future, only incineration, where no memories exist,
we are now the unloved, lost, forgotten, left to fend for
ourselves. The beautiful minds, awakenings at times,
simply to cherish some history, then back to sleep we
go and await for what, who knows?
The other side can’t be any worse than this side of the
misty curtain, creased by many who went before us.
Time stands still as it awaits us, a simple soul lost in
this present world, to be rediscovered, rejuvenated
and awakened beyond our expectations.
Our Notebook full, we close it gently, pat it with
tenderness, close our eyes
to sleep the deep sleep, and wait!
Vincent Moore 2017
He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.