We Lose Ourselves

 

- on our unseeing eyes and our unwilling hearts

 

Life in itself is a novelty,

Twisting, turning, never stopping,

Always jumping up, pushing on,

Never waiting, ever gliding– a novelty.

 

We used to think we knew it all,

Like colossal giants, twisting turning.

Frenzy forming in a melting pot,

Overlooking our very souls– ‘we knew it all’.

 

Distant, sitting, waiting for something.

Life in itself was unplugging,

It’s very meaning sucked out by us,

With no fixing formula, waiting for something.

 

We are fossilised, addicted to blindness,

Always waiting for a cure– satisfaction

Bleeding, burning, bruising, brimming.

Feelings form, emotion erased, addicted to blindness.

 

Where is God, and this divine design?

Created, confusion, then ransomed, restored.

Deliverance made clear through a man on a tree.

Through seamless death, righteousness restored– Divine Design.

By Joshua Pike

The City

 -on our blindness to self-destruction

A fumbling mass of nothing good,

People walking, running, talking,

Fallen angels work as they should,

Grey clouds smog, settle, stalking.

Mystery enshrouds, judgements cloud,

We sit in this room, eat, walk, sleep, die, breath in deeply, give a sigh.

Yellow light scrapes on the sky, purple noise screams and loud.

The breathless living reach out to us, making thoughts birth like, ‘Why?’

 

Stompa, stompa, like a drummer boy,

The feet of those who are walking, beat life into its heart.

The ancient smoke billows –respiration.

Forgotten light simmers through –restoration.

The dazzling signs of those who are showing, end and start.

Flasha, flasha, like a fishing coy.

 

Beata, Beata, like cries of eaten souls,

The echoes of ancient stories untold, mysteries unfold.

All babbling tongues of men, unveiled,

But forsaken, darkened pasts entailed.

Ambiguities leap from hot to dark, light to cold.

Patter, Patter, shadows consume our goals.

 

What is this life anyway?

The drink spills over the edges, is this what we live for? There must be something.

We sit solemnly, silently, waiting for something wise to say.

There’s nothing.

We push forward on an endless trail, pushing weightless millstones.

Bitter memories fill in the edges, sealing any hope of escape.

We are prisoners on our thrones.

Locked in this room emptiness, remorse fills in any shape.

Again, we contemplate.

 

Thunda, Thunda, blood rain falls from red clouds,

Ears perk to hear sharp echoes pounding these grey halls.

We crane through smoked windows to see the light of stars,

But they are lost in ominous headlights of cars.

We open this rusty metal door to see outside past the walls.

Smatta, Smatta, rain disperses the star-gazing crowds.

 

Tappa, Tappa, we breathe this toxic air,

And walk down calloused streets through acid rain.

We walk around the block and then again.

We form fickle relationships and then again.

Nothing new, just reimbursing the old pain.

Whacka, Whacka, twisted tales add to our despair.

 

The city’s lights fogged by us,

The city’s streets clogged by us,

The city’s parks ravaged by us,

The city’s people savaged by us,

The city’s gates charred by us,

The city’s soul marred by us.

Yet we still continue in destruction true,

Yet we still do what we do…

 

By Joshua Pike

Godless

 

A poem on the gagging of God...

 

Why do we debate our soul’s very existence?

Lacking abstinence and persistence.

We left our consciousness far behind,

As the rotting soul eats its fallen mind.

We chase our tail –around, around,

And fall hard on solid ground.

Exhausted bitter, grieved torn,

Filling our minds with sulphur –we forget to morn.

We, the murderers of humanity,

Bask in our mistakes and drunken clarity.

We awake from our beds, to sleep in our graves,

Whipping the truth, as evil behaves.

We cut our feet and march up mountains.

What is of the Greeks and their knowledge fountains?

For what we knew is lost,

And future learning comes with cost.

Will we have to reverse this cycle?

But it seems we have broken the cycle.

The cry, ’The Horror, the Horror,’ haunts the halls.

The marching of men with the shots and falls,

We laugh at the burnings of history and life.

Strived, will strive, strife.

Adam and woman knew not of the cost,

Did they not take that which is lost?

The tongues of Babel, the Flood of earth,

The new dawning of man –rebirth.

Burnt, burns, burning.

The very wheels of Heaven turning.

Forget about development and lovers of truth,

Forget the wise, look to the youth!

The romans came crashing through,

Born from providence, born from lies, straight and true.

They civilise land.

Coliseums and palaces with ‘happiness’ and ‘joy’ a-grand.

Their gods we make our hero,

We cry, ‘Hail him, make Nero Hero!’

Obscuring lines of certainty and the sure,

We change the whims into towers secure.

Then the Messiah –we surely agree?

No! We twist the truth and leave Him on that tree.

Then the fall of Earth’s  great city,

Divided in two, eaten up by pity.

From which emerges a dishevelled flower,

Destroying Grecian knowledge and Roman power.

Naturally, we change this for the better,

And for the sake of generations to follow –for days that are wetter.

But the flower blooms to Renaissance flame –love, peace, joy singes,

Tearing the reformation from history’s hinges.

We scrape away church and saintly calls,

As screams of religion echo in ancient halls.

‘THE HORROR! THE HORROR!’

‘The horror, the horror…’

A little life surfaces from the rubble,

The other lands bathe in trouble.

We live with Louis in Versailles,

And make up long and deciphered tales.

We try to gag God through the arts,

But history fails without essential parts

Yet still we gash true life from World Wars and strife,

We spit and shout, slash and stab, sword and knife.

We try to kill the reason we live and walk,

Burn the truth –let youth talk.

As if we are in existence by mere chance, we can’t perceive,

We forget the truth of Adam and Eve,

Like an agnostic atheistic world we deflect and repulse.

Then we realise we are dying –we have no pulse.

 

 

By Joshua Pike