Death, creation, rebirth

I blacked out a 4 Am and wrote this. The author in me is proud, the human who has to deal with my screwed up sleep schedule hates me. Enjoy!

somewhere out there

when you're feeling especially hollow 

you have the chance to ask the emptiness

what's the meaning of life

and out of the dark corner-stone clouds

the cynic will laugh at you 

and look in that pretty little way 

like you're a caged bird wondering if escaping is even worth it anymore

how silly, really

how opposite that metaphor becomes 

and the cynic will look you in the eye

(the eyes really

for all authors say, you've got two, and their both pretty as hell)

and smile and say

"It's not pretty

not from here darling

do you really want to know?"

and they have that easy sort of confidence 

that says, because they know it, that you'll say yes

because as nice as your eyes are you're asking dark corners about the meaning of life

and besides that you're human, and we humans are

curious

to a

fault. 

and if you ask corner-stone darkness what the meaning of life is 

the cynic will tell you, with all to much humor, "

death"

but if you ask the jaded-sidewalk weary 

the artist will tell you

(is poetry an art? so I hear, but all I do is interrupt myself 

through the cracks of my linework

playin' it off like these thoughts are the human stuff

and the human stuff's what matters)

with not a paint-smear droplet of grief

that the meaning of life is "

creation"

and if you have the chance and you take it 

and ask the stars flickering in the sky

like they've lost the same sort of feeling

(they always talk about "reasons" to live, but feeling's the important part

rather the lack of it, and the

skin burning, lighting your nerves on fire one by one,

untouchable kind of pain, the pain that's screaming warnings because 

your joy is tearing itself

from the seams of your skin that it's probably too good for

because life is the empty corner stones and the squinty-bright sidewalks

and  the point I'm trying to make,

is that there's no dictionary definition of happiness you forget when you speak to the sky

you don't reason with love,

so why are we all so stuck up on reasons to live?)

if you ask the sky and the stars and the

phoenix that is burning there.

now and again

for it has fallen like the angel of lucifer

("bringer of light")

and rose again to meet you, the morning star

(once again and again and again)

and the phoenix will tell you

hesitating for just that one moment

but in truth, and truth burns in the sky and the soil, you could

really

use the help

so the phoenix will say

in just it's one word (shaking, shaking the land like the flickering of it's morning star) but in no short terms whatsoever

because this is a creature of pure flame and fire reveals and strips away

and don't try to explain thoughts to me in language

for language is art (creation) but letters do not determine the length

of the abstract dance that is fire and thoughts 

(my thoughts, the inferno, don't you dare step inside.)

and the phoenix will tell you

with much deliberation that seems like nothing at all

(you are dust truly, and your dust has been alive for eons of starlight)

the meaning of life is "

rebirth"

if you ask the corner-stone emptiness

what is the meaning of life

the cynic will tell you 

death

the artist will tell you

creation

and the phoenix will tell you 

rebirth

think for long enough and they're all the same 

for I have loved

(and isn't that, if reasons to live have any merit in being charted, the best one.

there are no more accolades than life, the losing game, than to have loved

and maybe to have been loved in return. God I hope you love me in return)

I have loved and I have loved ardently and arduously

and am all the better for it. 

and to write is to die, but in that way where you trade bits of your soul for immortality 

because in truth

I am dust.

I will return to it.

I will die and I will do so when I finally find this poem complete  (never, truly, this is a faulty comparison. Poetry will end when my thoughts thin out into nothing. I hate writing endings.) and sacrifice my life to live it's after 

But let me have loved and written and been reborn

just as the cynic leaves the knife in the wound to slow the bleeding and the artist hurts a little more to make a masterpiece and the phoenix lets itself spark into embers again

(and again and again)

and the sky laughs with little humor because they have yet to realize that they are all the same

if you ask me on a corner-stone shadow

what the hell's the meaning of life   

I'll tell you that the cynic is tired of burning so it laughs at the ashes and the artist is letting grief and soot sculpt through their fingers and phoenix has burned and burned and burned

and hauntingly they will all stare you in the eyes

I will stare you in the eyes

(note the plural, they're both damn stunning)

and tell you to stop thinking like a poet

and go live for you can love

and this (death, creation rebirth) and cornerstones and sidewalks is all a waste

for you

Author's Note

This is so long sdfkas but I kinda love it! :D Let me know what you think !!!