Inception

There are times when I am a mystery to myself, where opinions are expressed based on the minutest observation, mere witnesses to the truths I see without any real foundation other than a feeling and the innate belief that instinct is the mother of enlightenment.
Sometimes they offend the faithful, I become the jester, my own misgivings and hasty conclusions the nemesis that will never be defeated.
But they’re just thoughts, ideas, nothing more…throw them away if you wish.

Sincerity, humility, a lack of belief in the image portrayed, all workings in the mind of a maddening soul screaming to find truth in the lies that smother, that suffocate, that are implanted for no other purpose than to deceive.
Paranoia the father of a bastard existence, trust something to be earned on the road to admiration…and it is, earned I mean, yet never truly deserved.
Starved of knowledge you suffer as sinister beings feed off the aspirations of those who dream, the seeds of doubt they sow no more than power to those who live under the facade of the righteous.

You live, you dare to question, to search for answers unspoken in the hearts of men left rotting in their own self-loathing. Till one day you see, remember to breath, to exhale the poisonous fumes of empty words that have deafened you. It is then, when you hear the echo of your heart beating in time to some far off dream that you are free.

R.M Roberts ©2012

Resolution

A New Year beckons,
Hopes and wishes born of disappointment and sorrow.
Up high they fly, far off beyond the earthly sky,
Before fading helplessly into the dreams of yesterday.

A clock chimes.
The second-hand signifying new beginnings,
A change from the old to the new,
But what is one without the other?
No more than empty thoughts of yesterday’s tomorrow.

Reality wakens.
Optimism gives way to fear.
The same sun rises.
Nothing has changed,
The world remains constant,
No room for enchantment.

Yet still we dream,
Still we dream.

 

R.M Roberts ©2011

River Nene Dreams

The cityscape is fading now,
Cathedral spires turn and flee,
Where once we danced within our dreams,
And set our spirit free.

The Nene flows on, the boats they sway,
As sun sets swift, on dying day.

In twilight gaze of crimson glow,
We walked among the naked trees,
While dappled thoughts of long ago,
Embraced our hearts serene.

The Nene flowed on, as moonlight bathed,
Two lovers and their yesterdays.

We walk along the riverbank,
Where silence whistles through the trees,
As echoes of the late night train,
Awaken the unseen.

Still on it flows, that river Nene,
Through fens and cities silently.

 

 

R.M Roberts ©2011

Going Home

Feet aching, eyes drifting,
Remnants of the day, waiting at the bus stop.
Ticket shown, you struggle aboard.
Rest your head on a window dusty,
Reflections stare back through darkened glass,
As raindrops dance, the orange glow of streetlights fading.

You close your eyes, the engine humming,
Mothers chatter, as children cry, papers rustling, music blasting,
Oblivious to your need for peace.
Crossing the bridge; the Nene flows silently beneath you,
As lights from the barge cast shadows on the water below.

The bus stops, icy air rushes through the aisles,
Too many people; dead on their feet,
Pushing, grunting, wanting to go home.
We pass the football ground, over the railway bridge,
Leaving the city far behind.
The journey long, but then the lakes and trees take over,

Almost there, the air suffocated by darkness,
I thank the driver, begin the walk home.
Gravel crunching, the pond in sight.
A solitary swan swimming in circles.
The day is done.

R.M Roberts ©2011

The Lines are Drawn

The lines are drawn.

Laughter obscured by hazy shades of intolerance and fear,
Harsh winds blowing, the winds of change throwing security to the mercy of an autumnal sky.

Silhouettes of era’s passed unite with embryonic majesty,
Dark desolate futures of the many lay unrewarded, hope trampled by the arrogance of the few.

Rage erupts, precious sunlight dawning, but no warmth is known, no compassion shown,
Just untamed anger as frustration forces unwanted conclusions.

The lines are drawn.

R.M Roberts ©2011

The Legacy of War

The ghosts of war march silent on,
down marbled stairs, through dusty halls.
Echoes of death cry, screaming still,
destruction and bloodshed the soldiers reward.

Bullets fly freely, they dance through the air,
like  fireflies igniting in autumns twilight.
The horror, the anger, of mans twisted rage,
a legacy growing, obscured by the fight.

Souls of the living cry silent, ignored,
False freedoms the promise; dictators of fear.
Feeding the faithful with lies ever more,
captive they struggle the shackles of war.

Their truth remains hidden behind toughened glass,
man’s weapons of war hang poised overhead,
Signpost’s on walls mark  battles once fought,
The clock ticks eternal, still counting the dead.

 

 

R.M Roberts ©2011