Poetry Compilation VIII: Ex Infinitum

Poem 1: endless beginning

What does it mean to end
when there’s nothing to begin?
Do we get something or nothing
when nothing ceases to be?
One may say it’s the latter,
as zero sans zero
is equal to zero.
Another could say it’s the former,
for emptiness fades only
in the presence of something.
Whatever the case is presently,
both must exist, or neither can be.
What could we even begin
if there was nothing to end?

Poem 2: The Patient Servant of King Chaos

Possessing no sense of justice,
it acts not out of vengeance.
No logos, ethos, nor pathos…
it moves only for Chaos.

None dare speak the servant’s name,
for this alone drives most insane.
If ever it were awakened,
anarchy would forever reign.
From the sky’d rain cats and dogs,
followed by swarms of locusts and frogs.
With a single word
it could split apart the Earth,
and break everything of worth
in this mortal world.

Such an eldritch existence…
no God could possibly allow its presence,
and so it was banished into the darkness.

Known to be guilty, yet free of sin…
imprisoned, it sits quietly within
a jail of infinite complexity,
awaiting the return of the monarchy.

Poem 3: Ascension

And so life begins anew,
bound not by pain and sorrow.
Why bind yourself to yesterday,
when there’s also tomorrow?
Life is full of pain, that’s true,
but that’s not all there is to see.
Nature, songs, friendship, and love…
there’s endless possibilities.
It’s not all good, it’s not all bad.
There will be pain, there will be fun.
Just know that new things await you
beyond the dark horizon.

Poem 4: Nothing but Turtles

My top hat’s a turtle.
Your socks are both turtles.
Those belts and gowns and girdles?
All turtles.
You don’t own a dog,
you don’t have a cat,
nor fish, parrots, or gerbils…
Just turtles.
There’s no escape.
No doors, no windows.
The walls, the floors, the hurdles…
They’re turtles.
Look up, look behind,
to your left, then your right.
You look to your feet and see turtles…
Nothing but turtles all the way down.

Poem 5: Blocked

I pick up my pen,
and begin to write the words
that come to my mind.

At least, that’s what I’d
like to do, but Writer’s Block
keeps drowning me out.

First, he instills doubt.
Is this the right thing to say?
What should come after?

Next, hesitation.
What if others don’t like it?
Is now the right time?

Finally, despair.
Why do I still try, if I
can’t even sort through
my own messed-up mind?

This is his method,
the demon known best as the
bane of all authors.

How, then, do I win?
I can’t. What, then, can I do?
He’ll come back again.

I know this, but I
still wield a mighty weapon
in this endless war.

I know your weakness:
you’ve got no arms, no means to
strike a killing blow.

You may be wily,
but you can’t stop me for good.
I’ll pick up my pen
and write once again.