The Puppets Dance.

#poetry #Lifestory #Thinkingnotthinking

A decade ago I began a massive life transition that's lead me into the position I presently exist in. Like many other things in my life, it began with a dream. And this memory still holds sway in my life, it still nudges my course in whatever direction as a result.

I started writing many things. Short entries in journals, short stories, short songs. I have a few creative works that came along in this transition which remind me of some of the feelings I was living with back then.

As you can see I've entered another creative phase in life. I recently was thinking back through all the things I had written (the ones that survived anyway) and I came across "The Puppets Dance". In my opinion, it's the best creative work I've ever done. So I decided that I would recreate it.

I struggled to grasp at what is to come. Speculation of what is, and where we come from. My heart has rendered an answer, this is of what I speak, and still, I hold my perspective as unique.

My language was born of frustration. My heart of sensation, and the damage I've incurred on the travel, a travel I've not yet adjourned.

I do not know why life tends to be hard, though I do know without challenge there is no satisfaction. Without direction, there is no direct reaction. Without conflict, there is peace. But just the notion of contentedness has shown me no release.

In the face of a force that will not bow, I look for peace and contentedness, oh where are you now? The inner struggle of man is what I speak, as what I experience makes my perspective unique.

A flower of blue, the question "Why does it grow?" On the graves of dead men, that's where its beauty is shown.

They have bowed to the ground, they have gone to their home, but why oh why, these flowers have so beautifully grown?

On the graves of Great men, they show what they are. The graves of men, where the colors are bright. Colors so bright, they make the darkest of darks appear as light. It's the darkest of darks, shades are hidden from all but the keenest of eye. It's a night of no moon, a night of no stars, this night will be here soon, it is not that far.

The backs of men great, the backs of men small, the future seems lost and of no men at all. Pile them in boxes, dress them in strings, the days of altruism we abandoned for lesser things. The shame I bear as I am of these masses. What is the complication of our complex species?

I have been implored to try and to grasp what is to be. A future devoid and nowhere to see. A figure in its cumulative state that is equal to none. A shared sense of failure we will soon see, as our present was robbed as the future will be.

If there is no future, there can be no past. But finally, it was a dream that was never meant to last.