Étiquette : lines

That time of the century

It’s now, it’s that time of the century.
And all you can say is you’re ready.
The moment is yours, the future is born,
And it came a long way to capture your soul.
It dangles the cure by twisting a thorn,
Not for you to obey, yet to fix on your goal.
It scares and allures, invades any shore,
And you’re left as a prey, only few steps behind,
When you’re still unsure what phase you head for.
It knows you’re enslaved, like most in your kind,
Who’ll grow insecure at a free entry door,
At the suddenly paved avenue of their times.

And the moment is pure, and the light is reborn,
As it came a long way for to summon your prime ;
When life is obscured with all you had sworn
It clears enough days to freshen your mind.
Unless you adjourn a filtering dawn,
Abide in your haze and partly go blind,
This page you will turn, or soon will be torn,
You’re either in chase or easier to bind.

Oh, the strain you endure in your quest for more…
Every page has a lure, when not fully scored.
And the mourning is rude, yet no past you adorn,
Rewinding old views of the sculpture you’re from.
How brittle and crude, it was looking forlorn ;
If you played your own muse, well, embrace your freedom.

It’s now, it’s that time of a century.
And all you can swear is « I’m ready ».

—

(Tableau : André Devambez – « La Charge »)

The OK version of yourself

Portrait-of-George-Dyer

—

The OK version of a song is never satisfying.
When you bring the effort in not screwing it up
Instead of wanting to have it greater,
That’s playing defensive, that’s playing too modest.

Don’t be modest by the way.
If you avoid being pretentious
In rather playing safe,
It’ll always look, feel, or sound a bit restrained.

And the OK version of that song
Becomes a revealing feature
Of how you live your own life,
Scheme your plans, aim the next border, the next chapter,
Trying so hard not to fail
That you never succeed in the end.

If you deliver that OK version of yourself to the world,
Don’t expect any bigger consideration.
The world is not a secret talent searcher.
For better and often worse,
It only pays attention to an edge at the moment,
To a movement or idea so undeniable they can’t wait.
It only shows interest for greatness and stupidity,
Beauty and horror,
Naked truth and gross lies.

Oh wait,
Let’s be fair,
There’s another hook though.
Being awkward, special, unusual, unexpected…
Yet not in a shy way :
See, you can’t just be weird on your own,
It has to mean something.
And it’s not « OK »
It’s not « alright ».
It’s you.

—

(Painting by Francis Bacon – « Portrait of George Dyer »)

 

Can’t hurt the pain.

Edvard-Munch-Vampyr-II-1896

—

You can’t hurt the pain.
Can’t make the grief suffer the way you do.
Nor cut a lifeless branch on a weak familiar tree,
Regardless of the shades unrolling over you,
From every last year’s leaf the spring will not renew.
You won’t kill what’s dead already,
Loathe what’s cold or vanished,
What no more will shine.
Even when the old flame surrounds you.

You do not heal,
But never grows the fatal wound,
Wishing you’d turn the stroke of fate
In a violent revenging blow.
By then you point the fist
Against your own shadow,
Unveil a clear target
For those of light beliefs,
Who hardly bare their chest,
And let their feelings go.
You look for mind relief,
In the balance we make
Between beauty and dirt.
Not amongst right or wrong,
Justice and crime.

You’re not the lawyer.
Because you feel, more than you judge.
You get to sense, more than you deem.

Then in the final repentence,
Here is the greatest of your deeds ;
If, as a living remembrance,
You are the one she requested
For the ultimate confidence,
Facing an almost departed.
The hand in debt will cure
What itself had branded.
And you will know the touch,
As you will know your pain,
But then also the prints
From a brotherly chain.
This major human link
Was never born in vain.

So you will have to lend
Your own uncertain hand,
All over bitterness,
Absence and loneliness.
Wide open for a mate
Not to a broken fate,
Not to a shred of history,
Nor a fallen memory.
Not to a leaving rest of life.

For you cannot hurt the pain.
She’ll lift you anyway.

And you shall forgive.

—

(Tableau : Edvard Munch – « Vampyr II »)

What is lost, and what must be won.

What is lost, and what must be won. (Photo by Escape Fantasy)

 

Now’s the time for us to accept
That what is lost is better at rest.
In hours and days,
We acknowledge the cost.
Yet how to repay
For what you lack the most,
Why dream you had stayed
In these arms of your host,
When it don’t make a difference,
You’re ten lives away…
It is gone in the distance,
You just followed your way.

Then here comes the time for you to incline
To the feeling of loss
And not having a choice,
Even still it resounds familiar in tune,
And you’ve been here before,
So, you must be immune,
In truth you had more than just no other way,
But you needed to feel it could stop any day.

Now you’re reaching the point
When you’d better assume
How, from this dawn until the last you consume,
All you didn’t once do, as bridges you burn,
All you couldn’t live through, however returns.
It’s your every day’s due, now what must be won.
And no further rescue if damage is done.

Everything gets old nowadays.

Everything gets old nowadays_visual
—

Everything gets old nowadays.
Aging faster than it used to be,
Or we just felt agreed.
Aging faster from a week to another,
Even from the last till the next hour.
Habits get older as quick as they come,
Our best behaviour tomorrow’s bygone.
In a reset of thoughts do we find a new shelter,
And by playing the ghosts, can we manage to linger.

Everything’s past in a few days,
Whatever the mood, or emotional phase.
It burns out way fuller, blows sooner to decay,
Than it sure would at first or only months away.
And there’s a hunger and thirst always willing to grow ;
Yet the moment it bursts you don’t want it to slow,
Then consume all it’s worth, and now older it shows…

But you know, these days,
Everyone changes anyways.
Faster than a postcard,
Than whatever nice people say.
And there’s a reason your hair would suddenly gray,
Only time is made such a bitter reward,
You wish it never would catch you off guard…

But everything gets old nowadays.
Way faster than it used to,
Or we once knew.
Faster from a dreaming to its nightmare,
From hope to despair.
Until it don’t even seem you just might care.

I didn’t wave goodbye to yesterday,
More, I forgot which was the day.
Don’t know what this life used to be,
The chain is set apart from me.

No word was told, one passed the other by.
Is it too old for us to even try ?
Who’d say hello ? That’s from another time.
The way things go, now’s everybody’s crime.

And life would spin along, just as an endless play,
These years of turning wrong, we knew might have a stay.
I never waved goodbye to yesterday,
It was so long departed anyway.
Nor even cried so much for the old world,
It left too many wishes never heard.