Dark side of the world

A dark and a light, a good and a bad,
Are they the same or a different dyad?
It’s the first thing you thought, isn’t it?
That it’s the bad, the evil, the odd and misfit.
But think about the dark side of the moon.
Once it’s far, about that unrelated balloon
We know it means just the mystery, hidden,
With no judgment attached to make it forbidden.
What if we turned other things around too,
Changed the perspective to give us a clue?
Maybe the things we so often despise
Look quite a bit different seen through the eyes
That are used to darkness and all of its shades,
And we may finally stop our crusades.
Don’t mistake one contrast for the next,
It just gives ignorance an easy pretext.


Open book

Sure, you’re an open book
Crypted thrice over
In a language no one but you knows.

Sure, you’re completely transparent
The same way the ocean is
So you only see inches below the surface.

Sure, everything is crystal-clear
The refracting kind of crystal
So you find anything but its depths.

Sure, you can say you’re simple
Like quantum physics is
But only before you learn basic algebra.

You’re right about one thing though.
You’re impressively naive,
If you think I’d be naive enough
To fall for any of that.
You better watch out, love.
You’ll be in a world of trouble
The second I break your code.

Virtues of desperation

There are such virtuous people,
Far more than the rest of us,
Yet their light so easily hidden
Under a layer of perceived sin.
But who are we to judge when we don’t know
The touch and taste of their circumstances?
They may be showing the world
Something different than we think we see.

They may be showing the prudence of anxiety,
And be planning ahead for a future
They see so dark and stormy,
It might as well not exist at all.

They may be showing the justice of impulsivity,
For there’s a good and a bad way
In which justice should be blind,
And for them, all the things they can weigh
Are the judgments of seconds instead of years.

They may be showing the fortitude of apathy.
Let’s not forget there are people for whom
Merely lifting themselves up would mean
Travelling a far greater distance
Than others go to encircle a globe.

They may be showing the temperance of obsession,
When a single second of separation
Claws blood from the skin of their soul,
And limits cut into them like barbed wire,
Yet they still force steps through the thorns.

They may be showing the faith of depression,
For we all agree proof cancels the need for faith,
Yet we all trust in the existence of light
While being surrounded by glorious flames,
And judge them for struggling to see it
With their eyes closed against darkness.

They may be showing the hope of insecurity,
After being conditioned a lifetime
To the idea that they are undeserving,
And hope itself is overstepping their bounds.

They may be showing the charity of compulsion,
And the things they give freely are not,
Like for the rest of us, mere triffles,
But bloody chunks of their own beings.

They may be showing the world
Things that can only be understood
When you know both halves of the story,
Virtues of hardship and desperation.
People forget that qualities
Are not things to judge others on,
But things to mould themselves by,
For our stories are the only ones
Any of us have any right to.
So let’s judge ourselves for a change
And assume everyone else is virtuous.

April First

A spring bloom on Easter day,
Painted eggs on gilded trey,
Red and shining like a dream;
In between, chocolate and cream,
Laid more eggs, sweet bites on theme.

Fool you’d be though, if you rush,
On your teeth the sweets to crush.
One might sooner bite on rocks,
Laid as traps in ribbonned box…
Since it’s Fools’ Day on the clocks.