Marked Umbrellas

This bunch of poems tries to promote the importance of

“responsibility above happiness”, which is a structure that doesn’t try to
reduce the value of happiness as such, but to create a distinction between
the “ultimate goal” and the “ultimate good”.
If one decides that the meaning of life stands within the search for
happiness, or that life has meaning only when happiness manifests itself
within his/her boundaries, then one’s life doesn’t have meaning when
happiness doesn’t manifests itself for that person. Thus, although one
could very well make a case for the value of happiness as an ultimate
good that could happen for people, the same “good” doesn’t make up for
the complexity and the frequent and utterly appalling occurrences of life.
One must assume the responsibilities that he or she is willing and
capable of assuming, for his or her own good, but for the people around
as well. That consists, mainly, in the responsibility of maintaining the
balance in one’s life, which means that one must be conscious enough to
understand the influence of his/her own actions, as well as acting
maturely according to that influence/set of influences.
If people want not to collapse into chaos, then people should act
within only the boundaries of correctly assumed responsibility.
But with all that being said, this could still be just a bunch of
poems illustrating a bunch of insecurities (regarding silence, death, time,
love, unconsciousness, confessing et al.), while subliminally portraying
a pseudo love story between “The old Man” and “The Silence”. So…
usual stuff, you know!
Table of contents

I’ve to ................................................................................. 3
Change ................................................................................ 4
The crimson trembling ........................................................ 6
Willow flames .................................................................. 11
Colourless ......................................................................... 12
The queue before you ....................................................... 13
The way the silence talks .................................................. 15
Emergo ............................................................................. 17
The year ............................................................................ 19
I’ve to

Why does it feel like breaking

in my bones,
Whenever the hands on the clock
start falling
Down their cycle?

How about the times when my mood would be all messy

But the books I'd read would take me somewhere new?
Now I'm all cracked in my head and through
My eyes I'm looking for a path to slip away.

I'm stressed and, though my thoughts are burning,

It doesn't feel like I'll figure this out at all.
Fatigued and buried in the mud, I fall,
Within the proof of my age unlearning.

I cannot be traced back into the light or fields

Of amber beams of summer clothing, in this story.
I've to endure the onyx wildfire of my yields,
And to search about the remnants of my glory.

I've to craft my way out of this appealing piece of hell.

...
...
I've to somehow break this terrifying spell.
Change

If I can change I hope I never know,

Cause I enjoy life.
Sometimes it's just to show
How easy it is to stay fine,
To not get hit by some blow
Of a scythe
And to keep your good health.

Up until this moment,

I was never scared of death.

But when it finds you, from there

It's out of your control, as if
The call for life it's
Ringing an idle tone.
It's like the reaper rings
Your doorbell
And waits for you to answer.

As if you'd see a sunset wave

Melting down your castle.

Palmer, my kitten, found out

About my pain.
Right now, I think
He's playing somewhere, hidden.
And more than anything,
I fear for him today.

I swore I wouldn't leave.

I swear to God I didn't.
The light is falling on the key,
Near the white gate's seal.
Maybe from there, I'll hear from Sammy

Playing with her children,

Laughing with her husband
And see my Palmer on his way to run
To comfort, perhaps into the ground with me.

It's strange
What I can know,
And hope to never change.
The crimson trembling

I've been told that if you can't be funny

You'll never be free.
That's got to be the trickiest
Of problems among the ones
She gifted me.

It will soon come to an end,

To a silver lining between
The madness that is my order
And the nightmare that is my chaos;
Although there can be no séance
Where there is no trembling border.
...

That's it.
I've got to slow down the thinking
Now,
And straighten myself up.
From the dire jump
Which I've tried before the sinking,

I've got to recover.

It's just too much noise
Into my ears to suffer.

The crimson drums clacking like

The silence. In this church
There's no priest to overbalance
The misdeeds of my search.

Imperfection trespasses every corner

Of this mind. My spirits maim
The finest of this child. I'm blind,
Confined...
Defined by... the horror...
I've tried to warn her
About.

No God will unbind

What the human mind has
Signed for.

Because it's either haunting

Or it's trembling, and it breaks
The world's colours anyway.

And I wiped 'em out several times

So far.
And each time it took me longer
To paint over their scar.
It's uncanny, it's bizarre,
How strong the colours are.

Killing a colour means to

Trace the light back into infinite
Nothingness. Where the crimson bells
Become the silence's sinful lust.

But you see...

I can be extremely funny.
And yet I'm never free.
I'm trapped inside this tower-
This spectacular clockwork of a man-
And the crimson gusts of it still
Knock this carcass in their shower.

I will never be free, and if I will,

I will have no home to flee into.
And I'm trembling. Whenever I'm
Calculating the glowing of this
Church, its colours turn again so blue.
So few of this child's destinations
Are flaring at least nearby some clue.

My jokes perhaps are never heard.

Or at least not properly. The
Hands of mine still push against
Her tower's wistful comedy.

But I see. I need to stop, because

It's merely snobbery.

It's not for me to decide

Whether I'm alive or dead,
Funny or denied. I will just
Slide down this church's
Crimson pride, and try to
Understand what I just said.

I'll have to bear the tide,

The noise of the laughter.
I'll have to push aside my sorrow,
And adjust to the better setting
Of tomorrow.

I have to bury this hatchet,

Where the stains left on it are
Remembering the colours of her
Smile, and her blood sweetening
My coffee in the mornings
And the cold mud she sent me under
When I mentioned that I loved her.

I suppose her mere disguise was

Just a sweet dream on free trial...
But too week were the shades of her lies
To cripple me into denial.

I sometimes wish it mattered:

The words that I use, or
The burdens that I shared, or
The wishes that she bantered.

How much pain does it take for

One to be convenient? To be at least
A roughly fitting colour, for example.

You see, now, I've reached the bottom.

As long as I'm not funny,

I will surrender freedom,
This is why she's right about me...
It's why I've always been this dumb.
Why my blues have built a mausoleum
For everything she stained.
I'm trapped inside my own museum,
Because my love…
It's just too plain to be obtained.

I can only watch it from the distance

And never touch it. I'll forever be alone
When I'm near her, and even when I'm not
She'll always be there,
Hidden in the unknown, like the shadows
In the darkness, when we dare
To miss our dear and forgotten clone.

I can only fight and climb my way back home,

And try to move the silence of her dome,
To let the sunlight in, when the mornings come,
To strum the sounds of wisdom, with the trembling
Of my mouth, and to find the way to sleep at night.

Because whenever you feel lost,

It's the sort of funny trembling
That you feel inside, that helps you
Get across the dangers of your youth.

I'll only try to say the truth.

Because I'm one with it...
And I know the clock will soothe
Each heartache she'll submit.
Willow flames
- a hymn to the silence

Down the smoke of willow flames,

An awful sinner reappears,
Selling brides and wrathful chains,
For every head of holy spears.
Lovely thoughts fall down her tears -
Feeling doleful, looking lost.
Tears of angry hostile dares,
Knocking limbs of putrid ghosts.
Queen of those who try the most,
Of those who try and hit the dust,
Of humans' raw and boundless lust,
Of smoking trees of whom she lost.
And whom she lost and whom she'll still owe
Carved their way throughout the willow
Selling foes and wrathful chains,
Down the smoke of willow flames.
Colourless

Precious time I fly by turning rosen,

And when I break I wish I had been frozen.
I've loved to take in the lot of clues.
I've loved seeing my words to have a use.

I wish I never shut, although my teeth are sore.

...
My fists are stored; my heart is beating for some more:
I think I sometimes need to be swiped off,
Before my words are turning into cuffs.
...
The words of a speechless are indeed flavored,
An unvoiced proper novel of the damned.
I'm sure the colourblind is favoured.
I'm sure the dead'd be seen to stand.

I've grown beside my heart beats solely.

My guts and thoughts are only to be cured.
Eternal sunshine for those who are so ugly,
Abiding darkness for those who are obscured.

My smugly ways of touching with the air,

My vicious typhoon's pounding unaware
Of many simple rare and sober faces,
Of bold folks writing on new pages

Of bright candles which will perhaps grow,

Of the moment's silence chanting for the blow.
The queue before you

May daylight meet your dark and emptied eyelids.

My main shall never try to fleet within my whole.

The damned should try to burn along the coal.

This lyric's scars are where the smile is.

Burning, aren't they?

Doorsteps, below your knees!

Water'd beats of wet and empty glasses...

Let your hourglass pass right into thy ashes,

So that my lamp post could rip apart with ease.

It never is, it never was -

Only terrors oversee.

Her finger tips deliver me

Down the crossways of my scathe.

The fool's blood's so soaked in wrath.

The very glimpse of thy leaves me enraged.

My bones have never seemed that caged.

Such luck hath yet to fall against my path.

As long as you will cry before his concrete shoulder,

My weariness will manage locking you behind.

You know, I'd love to've known you as a child

Still now I'd love to see you getting older.

Am I that rough to be talked to?

Are my insides burning seeds of hope?

Is it that easy for you to cope?

Or is it just the queue before you?

The way the silence talks

The old man and the silence: the way he's split.

He thinks
now it's the proper time to speak
the black bright magic out of his tiny lips.
He knows it's a little too late, perhaps
for the people who once listened to him.
Too much noise'd had to be cleared out
though.

But once the noise was gone, he found himself

alone, near the same old and strange shelf,
where his mother used to bring him, after
he'd make a mistake - but he was only twelve.
And little did he know, the laughter
of the hallway was all it took for him to
break.

For this time only, the shelf was empty,

He could finally move past it, down the hall.
The shadows vaguely yelling over the clock's hands
across the blank walls’ treasure. Plenty
of moldy space and time for him to
crawl.

But now he's out of place, forever,

because the proper time's lacking space.
However, the measure of his letters
is boundless with regards to shapes.
He split himself in parts, because the
silence is better shared through violence,
than through a steady game of
darts.

They see the stars, together,

swallowed by the darkness.
But where there's dark, there's calmness,
sweeping anxiously, while glancing at their
spark.

The twins of him are in a pool made out of

maps. They mark the water in which they drown.
It's slightly too heavy for them to swim.
His words burnt away inside him.
There's nothing else than blood
and the old man's
frown.

He thinks now it's the proper time to speak,

although his eyes are broken.
His mouth is bloody, and his heart is open.
There's nothing else he should cease
unspoken.

He thinks... and she keeps talking

...
the way the silence
talks.
Emergo

As the mind deserts the body it has used,

So do their ceilings by the time the
morphine gets infused.
It's a peaceful melody, as their soul is
getting bruised.
Dammit, this rhyme's already overused
by now,
…
and it cannot be again repeated,
because the old man told me not to.

But the records are all so muddy

and my torment still is lifted
for this moment; barely feeling -
almost breath-long being sorry.

Yet I worry,
as my vision turns all twisted.
They go away - my figurines and limbs
and all the dark eyes that I shifted.

She swims, he swims, and they all are

doomed to be facing the luscious
slander of our choices.

It's just fair to feast on the last bits

of their voices
and the frankness of their bones -
To make them sniff the wood they're carved into.

⁂
So I tell him now and then,
when I mount the marrow of his hair
if he's there to meet me under
this bloody spell or
his stormy wonder.

Why the hell is he not talking any-more?

And what's that hidden in myself?
Can I ask someone for help?
I think he's drinking from my core!

I thank you dear white silence

for letting me be you!
The silence within the soul of silence:
I like your white better than my blue.

Indeed it's a nice view from down here.

Why're you weak and foolish all ‘a sudden?
Is it my voice, am I too deep at the bottom
for thee, great white giant, to hear?

I’m sorry…
I should not be mocking you at all!
I can't blame you for trying so hard
to be heard. But then, you're deafened
and all scarred. I can't believe you were
This small!

I thank you dear white silence!

Now I think I might have fled,
tough I've taken thy elegy with me,
so you might stay forever silenced!
The year

It is spring, and I am one year older.

The quintessence of all the faulty order in my mind
Is merely a reflection of my travelled road towards her.
The empty streets on which willows prevail
And the thorn-hill monolith which is wambling
With no sign of being strained,
They all have yet to be explained.

The fuzzy recollection of the willow's leaves

And the ambition to burn out in such perfection,
They're all unsteady in my mind, but yet not so much,
‘Cause here it is already. Best not to dare get caught
Again, under the very heat so low. I could get shot,
Cause it all happened just one year ago.

Back when I saw my never-thriving luck,

Which had died long before the summer -
Or at least it did so in my mind -
So strong, from her, the hammer
Swung from my behind.

On the grounds that I was blind,

I've been caught and undermined.
I intend not to take notice of that
Again, with my own eyes.
It may be well that these old fears
Will slowly vanish through the years,
As I hold my banished breathing flow
Over thinking it was just a year ago.

Thanks though,
For perverting me into my own shoulder
To lie upon.
Nonetheless, I've grown to be one year older.