Perhaps A Fantasy

This feels too controlled.
Completely in control,
While indefinitely knowing I am not.
But the feeling
Of this pen on this parchment,
Of the thoughts formed,
Of the music that plays,
All known to myself.
Words I will remember in the morning
As having written down
Before my thoughts
Strayed to more desperate things.

How can Time and Space
Be split,
Manipulated, so to speak,
So I may enjoy it as it had
Led me to believe I would?
Underneath that rotten façade of beauty
Comes the real face of being.
A man-made existence of time
Distributes itself under the spell of the Gods.
How can I feel the weight of control
In my hands
When it is a falsified existence
To dignify and comfort man?

To what degree must I suffer
Before recognising and realising,
The hideous truth
Of my own potential
To posses and bend time and space
And matter that makes up the Universe,
Multi-verse even, perhaps.
Soon my script will be unreadable
To even me,
It’s maker and creator.
For the hand betrays the mind,
And in turn, the pen betrays the hand.
In truth, meaning,
The hand, in all senses,
Betrays its own primal desire,
To disobey.

One moment,
Time is here,
Offering the same offer
It had offered once before.
In the remembrance, I plead.
Sentenced to the last of my sane days,
On my knees
Pleading with the man perceived time
To grant me any favour of power
To manipulate it so as to
Create for me,
A doorway
To travel desperately through
And live in a place completely
Before my time.
Where I had been born,
And killed,
And born from again
In the wrong sentence.

Now, after a quick glance at
Surroundings of unknown origins,
I forget
Every desire but one;
The one of Love.
A Love more pure
Then I’d ever dreamed before.
The only dream tears have been shed for,
And I have begged to live.
A version of me,
Before this version of me,
Living engulfed in music
And responsibility.
Drowning in instruments,
Blissfully dying under the sounds
Of voices, carrying me through the air
As if I was floating.

A hug, a kiss,
A bond of love shared
Between my soul and my soul.
Build a dream of Life in a manner
That I’ve never dreamed,
But instead envisioned.
Cut me in half,
Cut me into small pieces,
And I still won’t weep as much,
My heart still won’t bleed as much
As did when I was startled
By the cruel realisation
That my dream was nothing
Of a dream to be,
But instead, perhaps a fantasy.
One of ideal places and people,
Skills and thoughts and friendships and doubts
Ever doomed under the cloud
Of failure.

Death would be a mercy,
Welcomed and invited in,
As compared to the thought
Of living my life in a time
After my time.
A place I shouldn’t live in
In the manner I live in it;
Instead of in the way I am truly meant
To live and fatedly meant to die.
Pushed underwater and held by
Dreams of the beyond-world dimension
That await me so I can be
Further blessed with the Love I
Once soberly dreamt of,
And now highly plead for.
Into the Darkness, I’ll close my eyes,
And open my mind and heart to
The unforeseen, impossible possibilities of
This world and the next.

Copyright © 2014 by
Atirah Jewel