The light of a burning candle

Yet another layer
yet another thought of the nothingness that is still.
But now the lies are not alone.
For the shallowness of ‘deep’ thinking is,
Now more then ever.

Yet another cycle and another turn round the sun.

and, still here a lay, looking at the gray walls

and the shut window. The burning candle that was

once, upon the table still lies,
untouched by time that passes no more.
The awkward and jagged shadows in the
flaky yellow of the light still rise,
now that the window is shut again.
The messy barely lit gray on walls covered with notes
quickly brushed with a pencil and, as soon forgotten
from thought and knowledge to be just a background
of a non meaning present.

The notes gather, more and more, covered now

with the dust of a memory that no longer remembers them,
a memory that only calls on the present to become just a forgotten note.

Just a dark flame of colour and still

after the thought of the falling, and de dark
infinity at the base of the building that was never built
the clouds outside are no more. No more of rational,
no more of the thinking that made it what It was.
Because now, is back to the very beginning.
The only difference is of a new discovered layer
of the fake rationality that is depicted by
a mind of forgotten thoughts and ideas,
by dreams that may just have been an hallucination
or fabricated memory.

And still more notes on the wall.

that, like the room of the dying windmill,
are forgotten of a past that was once beautiful yet tragic,
a never lived reality that still is.
A personality that is shaped by every unanswered message,
every gesture and thought.
A reality of loneliness that was no asked for
yet welcome.
The Indians scream of a stage story. Yet as I
another cover for an audience that is longing to know the reality
and yet so uninterested from knowing it.
Just a shag on a hut, in the middle of no where.
Just a thought of a thing that is now just trash.
A shout for help that falls always in the death ear.
The knowledge of a mind that things not at its inside
yet strives to know the very essence of a decaying world.
The past gray candle of white light that stuck is in a prison.
A point where no return lies in the path of the chosen one.
The hopelessness of the non-knowing of the original.
A strive to know the self of the shut blinds.
The fall to the street of the beautiful girl was no more then a dream.
A dream of the impossible fall to nothing.
Of a cloud of coloured gray in shades of candle.
The hand-made bright of scarlet reflections.
Yet the corner still stands, with a wall of nothing past.
The meaning is yet if ever unknown.
‘She is mine’.

Maxwell Black
30 Jun 2009
03.39am