Dead to the World

A Poem by Shaun

Imagine sitting in a chair basically endlessly...

Here I sit, lost in the meaning
Relapsing back though the motions
Emotion is crumbling, desires unweaving
Numbness seeping into blank thoughts

Cobwebs materialize across planes of flesh
Which cover distant, vacant bone
Encompassing fully this undead presence
Created solely to be alone

Why, oh why, am I back again
Ravenous for porcelain mystery
Where a flame burned once
Engulfing and seething
Left now is only ash and dust

To the heavens I gaze
Questioning these self destructive patterns
These addictions and habits endured
When their creation was of personal design
Credit is given only where do

Sewn shut are the eyes of this soul,
a phantom
a wraith, timeless and cold
Like the scattered grains of an hourglass shattered
It is useless and without a goal.

This body, this shell, now remains eternally
like a photograph of a time forgotten
destined forever to perpetuate its agony
Of an existence without point or matter.

Spiraling slowly this consciousness fades
Waning sluggishly towards the never ending blackness
It awaits the comfort, the longing embrace
Of that final synapse then complete nothingness

To blank from existence, to sound the horn of retreat
Would grant this specter passage to closure
But no instruments were present when the final breath was exchanged
To cauterize this living disaster

So forever I will sit, with only mold to provide company
As time everlasting drags forward
Evanescent in all things, awake but sleeping,
And completely dead to the world.

© 2014 Shaun

Author's Note

Please ignore grammatical errors and enjoy.

My Review

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Reviews

I can vividly imagine that chair, for I have written about here.
That, dear friend you will find out, it is a torture chair. One that nothing has to do with sex, but with a sharp and unfaithful war. However, this chair is the chair where someone sits, useless, lifeless, back on earth, after having seen a paradise, but still has a responsible job in the here and now. You know, we could spend hours wandering and whirling there, but we must have patience;-) dead to the world, and living in another world, where I separately from this world am too. It's a poet's sharpness, and art, to convey, the real need of something elusive, for another, something that never could be brought over in words, unless, the poet makes love to ink, you did that here, my dear. It's honest, raw, real, like I prefer you. It strikes me that you have a vivid perception of porcelain. I also see the term returning every time, as other terms in your work. (will put it out into detail soon). Again there is the feeling of oblivion, and the nothingness, beautifully layered, like an metaphorical onion, that burns your eyes, when you peel or chop it... (somehow the beautiful nothingness were we are safe, and hidden in). A living zombie feeling, I feel, of being on earth, but with your head in paradise, far away, not aware, and only in your subconscious you reveal on this planet. For there are people, like you and maybe me, who have seen the other side. Brilliant work, fantastic penning, 100 blessed points you get from me, and a favorite to my precious library.

- Elisa