Dearly Departed

This is my third attempt at Ghazal, an art form of poetry that is ancient. I was given a lot of help from a friend here on this very site. I just want to say you're amazing, and you know who you are!

The dearly departed are distantly heartless, cannot pierce my resistance, my armour, for I am not my father

I loved them with my sorrow, the dead smell floral, the pain universal, taste their torture the emotions potently hurtful, openly worthless, but I am not my father

 

People are forgotten without reason, in the cold storage, my cryogenic heart is freezing, my schizophrenic mind is breathing, the sands of time dripping down are leaving, the sound of life is fleeting, disease has it’s own unique behaviour, savor time before it’s wasted, for every year enslaves us, I speak of what your mind decides is sacred, but I am not your saviour

Petals on the flower are ripped off, she loves me, she loves me not, under the foot of tomorrow, the present is crushed, hope is never enough, love rots rather than ripens, pain throbs as it heightens, blood cauterizes when it’s syphoned, life does not live forever, we are given to and taken from, we all freeze in December, you would be smart to remember, humanity is a traitor, and this cold dead world is not your saviour

 

Those who pass are seeds of the freedom of the apocalypse, in their sarcophagus, cold in their hollow crypts, they are but a memory, they no longer exist, faded in the world of the awakened, sleep, but as you retreat from reality, know that you are buried in a prison, risen to fall, ripened to sour, you were fresh to curdle, buried in your hubris, ruined, until you rot to nothing at all, do not be mistaken in your inevitable failure, regretfully, the alive are forgetful, and you are not an angel

The truth is unsettled, like a leaf falling from a tree, made to bleed onto the sidewalk, and return to the dirt from which it was birthed, you came from the remains of others, and will feed the mouths that hunger, your descendants depend on you endlessly, for emptiness breeds it’s own suffering, for cemeteries grow the flourishing flowers, courage empowered from the flesh of others, become new life, divided as decompose, desecrated and incapable, the fresh dirt palpable, the cycle that rapes the earth, and through it’s womb comes new birth, so goes the fable, for all that die stay able, and you are not an angel

My father knows of many souls, the times that flow and the way life goes, the depravity that stays, he remains unafraid, I love my father, but I accept that someday he to will falter and leave me, for what is breathing but a set number of beats, before we finally fall asleep? But that is not a secret

Equal to death life is, what gives takes, what’s strong will break, all that’s civil is brittle, even the biblical is innately sinful, outside your window, death and life mingle, but that is not a secret, hope has it’s own bleakness, in power is weakness, in good evil, like sides on a coin, toyed with, even those without  conceivably feeble limits cannot push past their sickness, God does not mean good, best does mean giving, eternal is merely a word, it does not mean living, death is irreversible, to take, to steal life is to be someday cheated, dreams defeat, life’s demise is not a secret

For the dearly departed are distantly heartless, cannot pierce death’s resistance, my armour, this is a world made from cardboard, recycled paper thin pages cut through and glued together untethered with hatred, time is patient, but it will not wait forever, death is clever, and I am not my father

I loved them with my sorrow, defended the dismembered severed family members with my morals, we are not immortal, within the murals the dead are remembered in their lifeless turmoil, the dead smell floral, beneath the soil, the pain universal, taste their torture like fresh fruit that grows from the offshoots of old roots, the emotions abortion feeding portion painted morsels of a resourceful reversal of those who survive or has faced their time, potently hurtful, openly worthless, only the rhymes can live on, but when the words are forgotten people live for a second of reckoning, before the devil beckons, but I am not my father

So struggle onwards hopelessly in your effort, I will die regardless, there is no forever, no second chances in the demand of death’s dances, rancid, honey become acid in the slow tactless blackness, the thankless blanket of death, for I will not breathe another breath, for I love my father honestly, constantly and I cannot pay the cost for his soul

So universal is the torture of sorrow, the reversal of yesterday to tomorrow, there is only so much a life broker can borrow, regal is time, standing above us all, the King of Lives, survival itself is a lie, in the frost of times flow, it’s cold-hearted circulation, we are but an emulation, a recreation of the past’s subjugation, robust in the mould, created and sold a dream of beings that we will never wake from, to take from, we give ourselves, we are given heaven, to be taken to hell, nothing stays, you will never pay the cost for their souls, they stay forever sealed, for when the truth is revealed I could never pay the cost for his soul

 

I speak of those who have yet been lost and disregarded, but I am not the dearly departed

As I stay, as I remain, I’m broken hearted, open-minded in my mindlessness, my spinelessness, my final wish is to be with my loved ones, I desire them, but I am not someone with that fired wit, that iron heart, that steeled soul, that strength of health, that force of will, to face the dire consequences, I am not my father, as I stay, as I remain powerless in the sourness of my cowardice, there is no such bliss, devoid in the divorced intercourse of remorseful hopelessness, I am not my father, I could never be the dearly departed

Author's Note

My father has not passed away thankfully. This poem still has a lot of strong feelings for me though. Sometimes something that you can never have is acceptable, and good to admire, and love, from a distance.




I very seldom reply to reviews, but I promise I read EVERY single one. I look forward to my next review because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be ecstatic to have the chance to hear what you have to say. Whenever you write something about my poems, or the themes of my poems, or criticize me it is not in vain. I will listen, learn and be thankful.

Reviews

[Ghost writer]

I actually disagree strongly with a couple things you say in this one, but it's very good nonetheless, I love the part when you talk about the cardboard town.

[Davidgeo]

It's a bit wordy and line long for a ghazal. I thought 15 couplets was the max until it just becomes an ode or something else? There's also supposed to be a refrain in there.

As I understand it, this is not at all a ghazal form of poetry. It's still good writing... but, not in a ghazal sense of form. Whom ever helped you on this did not help enough... "sticking feathers up your but does not make you a chicken" Sorry man, this just isn't what you labeled it.


As an aside... since it's veterans day... that dude in the red shirt who also commented on this, "wordman", is a chronic stolen valor offender. He brags about military service but never actually served a single day in the military (it's been objectively verified, thank you freedom of information act). Pointing this out may seem petty, but, I actually served and his constant lies are a serious slap in the face to those of us who earned it. I've been to too many real funerals, lost too many real brothers to let pathetic frauds like him get away with that bullshit.

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

I’m still an amateur for the most part. This was an attempt at ghazal, but I have a lot to learn. I’ll keep on trying until I write one correctly. As for wordman, I understand if you two don’t get along, but I don’t hold any bad judgements about either of you. Thanks for the review, I’ll continue to chip away at this art form until I manage to write one correctly.

[Davidgeo]

Do you hold bad judgments against people who claim to have served in combat but never even served a single day at all? It's called stolen valor... people need to know what that guy is doing. He's been using his fake "Army Ranger Vietnam Vet" line to shout people down and manufacture an air of superiority over people here for years. Do you think that's right or something we shouldn't talk about?

[wordman]

deep write jack,as most are,full of emotions

[wordman]

poor old troll davy,where did you read i was in combat b*****d,i was in the u.s army davy and it`s none of your business where,or when,all you want is information that is nothing to you..you`re an idiot,,f**k you

[wordman]

and your friends,

[.]

The poem has a very good theme! It's beautiful. And really an example of overflowing emotions. Congrats over this!

As always I admire you for your poems and your spirit...
Good luck!

[LazerRays]

this is really emotional, Jack. nice work here. i liked the message and the theme of it all. a hard subject to touch but you touched it rather nice