Confessions

And what is good, Phaedrus,
And what is not good—
Need we ask anyone to tell us these things?
Taken from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig.
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The following is written in similar style to some of Jorie Graham’s poems in The End of Beauty. My metamorphosis.

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Confessions

1
There comes a point when you are faced with three options: suicide, mediocrity, or change. We all dismiss two of those options. Which are they?

2
My angel holds on for the soliloquy. Sing, my lady, sing, into the night winds. Operetta. Where is she? The violin plays softly into the sunset.

3
Suicide and mediocrity are virtually the same. Redemption is only man’s terminology; damnation is the demarcation between heaven and hell. Phaedrus and Solomon see it…

4
Relieve me, dear Solomon, of this madness. Relieve me of this incessant madness; to which I call for God, challenge my God, question our normality, and celebrate the winter solstice.

5
The winter solstice, it encapsulates the soul. Breathe in the breath of the dawn’s fair maiden, she knows no redemption (semantics). Brevity, the definition of man’s time, of which the soul knows no end and the conscience knows no lies.

6
Amidst white pines I smell the mountains. They call me, the mountains, dear Phaedrus, they call me. My soul searches for them; mediocrity nor suicide have caught my soul. Not yet, at least.

7
I fear death, but more from the perspective of damnation. My iniquities are my damnation, may my soul rest one day. The soliloquy continues…

8
At some point all love is lost. The dawn no longer offers a horizon for tomorrow, and paradise is an illusion for the artists, dreamers, and poets.

9
Do you not hear me? Our souls search for the evermore, and yet we negate the premise that damnation lies within the ignorance of our being. Silence encompasses us.

10
The simplicity of our silence stifles us. Our mediocrity kills us. And we can longer see beyond tomorrow, because today limits our imaginations.

11
There is no reality. All I see is black, all I hear is silence, and all I comprehend is my reality. We are all illusions.

12
Confessions. They tell nothing, and yet they tell everything. A dyadic anomaly. EjG

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Without a thought
Without a voice
Without a soul
Don’t let me die here
There must be something more
Bring me to life.
Taken from Bring Me To Life, Evanescence

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Dudley Dee