child
Photo by bill wegener on Unsplash (modified)

Mystery of Misery: Poetry by Emmanuel Idem

Mystery of Misery, the

I wish I were as a child
Who after some tears forgets
The reasons for their sorrows,
…Forgets the death of a father
The mystery of misery
Brings a film of tears upon my eyes,
The mystery of my misery
Is in the collective library of returning memories
That sneaks up from my subconscious into
     my conscious. Selah

You know I walked into the middle of a busy road,
My lips raised in reckless supplication to a fast
Receding God. Selah
I would cut my left wrist, and watch the life drain out
Of me,____ sleep with a rope around my neck, wishing
For a premature ending
     that never arrives

Has anyone seen a coward like
     me?
*
*
*
Has anyone seen a coward like
     me?

I am reluctant to revisit these memories,
I do not like to witness the clueless happiness of
Clueless children, who dwell in the clueless bliss of infant ignorance,
Who know nothing about
The frequent re-occurrence of repeated
     misery

There is only one way to end this,
Before I become something
     of pity

———————

Iscariot Way, the

Before the deed
I reckon it could’ve been me,
So I label no blame on his poor soul,
The weight of our conscience sometimes
Drags us to new low depths of
     insanity. Selah

A kiss on the cheeks,
To what purpose?
Man is, mostly a predestined thing
With specified, yet myriad routes that confluence
At his certained damnation,
Man is, a wild
     specimen. Selah

After the deed
What differentiates decision from choice?
Someone tells me, we decide what we choose…
I think,
(And rightly so,)
Our choices were pre-agreed before our first existences,
And all we do, is decide one of the various paths that lead
     to some cosmically pre-arranged outcome. Selah

Watch him after the deed,
His heart is drunk with a slowly encroaching wildness,
Conscience wraps its tentacles about his
Soul,
And now the relevant subsequence is: how does
     he go?
*
*
*
We unhang a dangling sorrow from the tree branch, in the backyard,
Or from a rotating fan in the living room,
You get the irony, right? A dead thing in a living room…
Silently, we speculate the things that drive uncertain men
     to sever their fragile coils,

No, we are puppets,
     but in whose puppetry? Selah

———————
Poetry © Emmanuel Idem
Photo by bill wegener on Unsplash (modified)

Written by
Emmanuel Idem

I enjoy reading poetry and listening to all genres of music. I also play amateur chess.

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Written by Emmanuel Idem

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