I tried to jiggle my waist,
to the jingles that I heard.
My waist; tiny but stiff,
it dangled, neither west nor east.
Stationary like the mount,
ever-rest-ing like I'm bound;
bound in the boundary,
between indecision and precision
Why couldn't I wiggle,
to the rythm of the jingles?
A question, whose answer,
would later be found.
So not to be labeled;
a substance from the moon,
when the song was played,
I swayed.
In a zombie-like motion,
I twirled,
to a music, pleasing to many,
it seems,
but unpleasant my soul,
I know.
I want to feel among.
I want to dance along.
I want to flow with the multitude,
so not to be left in solitude.
The harder I try,
the louder I cry.
Dry pool of tears;
the fruit of my fears,
forming a river,
yet with no water.
But in it I mastered,
the act and art of swimming.
In ocean of sorrows I swam
even to the envy of fishes,
who flaps their fins
in honour of my skills.
With no sorrowful sound,
breaking out of this
mustachiod lips of mine.
A picture would say, Mmykel is fine.
Silent cries, tearing apart my heart,
like a voiceless fart,
its sound is soundless
but its stinks is the loudest.
Son, I was a skinny-dipper;
A former dancer.
A failure in the latter.
A pro in the former.
Son, ask me not for my medals,
for they smelled nothing like petals.
Say, your father had a name,
he doesn't want to be named.
Check my childhood tales,
it tells, of the seas
Which no eyes could see,
but your father knows
its length, just as its breadth.
Son, ask me not for medal,
for it smelled nothing like petals.
Be grateful, that daddy didn't drown,
before he found the lonely mount.
There is a soter,
on the mount of solitude.
He calls with a still small voice.
He can't be heard when you're among the multitude.
In his right hand is salvation,
In his left hand is restoration.
In both both palms, are healing balms.
Son, you won't hear him when you're in the crowd.
Son, try not to dance,
to all the music that is played.
Hone your tunes,
in the valley of solitude.
Son, be deceived not
by smiling lips,
for in the heart of many,
Sorrows are heaped.
Don't be confuse
When your lips smiles,
but your heart refuses to be used
as player, in the game of deceit.
Son I booked you a flight,
to a palace out of sight.
There, Your shadow will come to light,
and you will hear your heart speaks, in the brightness of the night.
Son; don't be scared of your shadow
hold her in a warm embrace.
Leave the crowd often
Just to commune with her.
Son, fear not when your heart speaks,
Silent other voices just to hear her out.
Listen to her, she will lead you,
guard her, she will guide you.
True salvation lies not in the multitude of counsels,
but in the sobriety of solitude.
Son, love the mount of solitude,
for in that area, lies the soter and his soteria.
Son, it was When dad,
ceased to please the crowd
that he heard the sound
that saved his soul.
the end
Note
A tale of a man who tried to play along with the crowd, though he was dieing within. He had to withdraw from the crowd, to find his true worth and purpose.
Two terms that are not English
Soter: Saviour. Translated from koine Greek.
Soteria: Salvation. Also translated from Koine Greek.
This is my entry for POB word of the week. A contest by @calumam but presently manned by @scholaris
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