February 23rd, 2002

Loon

Poem ...

Yeah ... I didn't like that "behind the cut" thing ... I got the sense that nobody took a look. So, I need to think about this. Perhaps I should just link to the archive site, but I don't typically update that on a daily basis, so it would be pointing to blocks of poems, and I don't think anybody is going to go look at that either. Oh well, I guess for the time being y'all will just have to deal with these things being up here like this.

                    MERE TWITCHINGS


                    1
                    nightmare cages,
                    lost events,
                    we are faced with struggles
                    well beyond our strength,
                    assigned these trials
                    designed so that we'd fail,
                    and set to endless tasks
                    focused only on our death
                    2
                    nothing works here,
                    all systems falter;
                    we can not set
                    foundation blocks
                    unknowing what alignment
                    each dawn presents,
                    unclear on how the laws
                    of reality might change
                    3
                    what place is this
                    so unsteady,
                    so unsure?
                    we can not strive,
                    we can not drift,
                    we can not settle;
                    all options are evil,
                    all outcomes vile
                    4
                    locked lower
                    into this decline,
                    we chart the marks
                    of our decay,
                    the scars and damage
                    of too many years
                    in ceaseless battle
                    with the mundane
                    5
                    darkness hovers,
                    oblivion looms,
                    nothing offers
                    any hope;
                    all our acts
                    grow weaker, vaguer,
                    more pointless,
                    mere twitchings of a corpse



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                02/22/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 



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