Tinctures of the Existential (poetic-prose)

They say,
Beyond equivocation,
That we are what we eat
(So to speak)
Or in other words,
What we embrace
And ingest spiritually,
Or mentally, or physically,
Defines what we become, and
How we feel about our fellow man,
And how we interrelate with the world
Around us on any given day,
And how we extract and
Express the verve
Within us

And since
My Byzantine self
Struggles with the baggage
Of bad choices, (a lifetime of them
To be quite honest) and the idea that
Being predestined – by a higher power –
To experience melancholy; to struggle; to
Suffer, and to battle daily against those
Who operate only in jealousy and envy
Is somehow a result of my bad choices
Seriously limits the potential of my
Personal dreams ever finding any
Realistic fruition

So I ponder in a desert,
(Unwilling to compromise)
And feel the wind, blowing,
And I ask myself, can I become
More than just another grain of
Sand in this cloud that buffets me?
And if so … whose words do I believe,
And whose thoughts find in me a resting place,
And if gifts have been given, what do I do with them,
And if I am dissatisfied with being in the cloud,
What kind of a grain would I like to be?

But beyond that, aside from what I desire,
Aside from what I believe, aside from whom I
Construe myself to be, aside from how I am perceived,
Aside from what I personally see in the mirror looking
Back at me … I have come to the conclusion that the more
That I question my life, and death, or the meaning of existence,
Or my place in the grand scheme of what is greater than
I could ever understand, the more that I lapse into the
Depressions that cause me to make the
Choices that suppress my dreams,
And inhibit those around me

Selah …

But still I feel a dagger
Slaughtering my thoughts,
And see a worm that never dies,
And a fire that is never quenched,
And the impotent self-consumption
That cannot do what it wants, when
It wants, to whom it wants, for the
Reasons it wants …
So I reach out and touch YOU
In the only way that I know how,
To quicken your thoughts, and make
More malleable the wineskin of your heart,
Hoping that I have not become the outspoken
Homo-harbinger of another spiritual deception,
Or the living newspaper of another’s conjuration,
Or the colorless aberrant blossoms of a false spring,
And also hoping that I have not breached my calling
Somehow in the awkwardness of artistic application

Richard Lloyd Cederberg
8/08

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Comments

Wow, this is extremely deep. This seems to really question “the meaning of life” without explicitly doing so. I really liked the mix of poetry and prose. We should have posted this sooner!

I can feel the author’s personaltiy and feelings come alive in this small poem. This is a really invigorating peice.

A remarkably written insight of frustration, ideals, and vulnerability that express well the dichotomy between the mental and spiritual wars that an artist encounters in the real world, and the idealisms that propel him against all odds to complete his mission.

I think, if we are honest, we all have experienced the feelings you have written about here…maybe some of us to a lesser degree than others. You have written this so well, and give the reader insight into their inner selves…at least, this writer.

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