Reflections: my own Elegy…
Should I compose words about my failures?
Will listening crowds enjoy this type of passion?
Can I be the author of my own elegy,
One unwritten because it is barren?
Is this the paradox I must conquer?
If I do, then who will I read this to?
In the boondocks of my brain I ponder
Do I write of life, do I write of truth?
Do I scribe my own death warrant in blood,
In words, do i etch my untimely demise?
Do I consign myself without breadth of love,
To where blackbirds can fetch my exanimate eyes?
In moments as they pass, do I bend towards them,
To the obliteration as it occurs?
Or do I welcome it like a shadow realm,
A dark citation of needed succour.
‘Tis difficult when writing of one’s death
To not err towards some linear bias
Or to stay uncaught in some selfish rant,
Than be afforded to delirium’s crisis.
Do I write of my afflictions endured,
Of vanity and emptiness near the end
Of mental turmoil and the torpor incurred,
Or how a smile is the empty way a mouth bends.
Do I tell you specifics, like dates and times,
Like when my anniversary passes
Of when smiles and happiness were paradigms,
Not prophetic of sadness and coming passage.
Do I mention how they ripped me from the pulpit,
How the world transformed and they left me out
How it rains for three days and I became desperate,
Desperate to know if God still has His doubts
How many words would demonize innocence
And how crass ignorance would define me
As time withered, with ugly dissidence
My heart and soul was supplanted with ivy.
Negativity dispersed like a plague
In my head the evil uprooted my brain
How my outlook was nebulous and vague,
Even footed on the right path, was in stains.
So should I compose words about my failures,
Or do I scribe my own death with blood?
In moments since passed, do I write of these ailments
Do I still write of my afflictions for love?
Or do I temper my imagination,
Close the switch inside, and never look back?
Or do I just fade in the myriad welkin,
Neurotic and self indulged, a maniac??
In my own viscous miasma, life resolves
To self rumination where clarity unfolds
Scenarios no longer revolve, they dissolve
Forgotten like the things I once controlled.
Do I start this plea with dearly beloved,
With brutal honestly or do I sugarcoat?
Do I roleplay my existence as placcid,
Or this jagged little pill as an anecdote.
Of course I speak from the realm of the living,
In an almost Delphic structure of note
If I were to write of my own outliving,
Am I inclined to read this elegy I’ve wrote??