Urban Decay - Poem by Owen JohnstonSlowly descending The spiral staircase Into urban decay On this night long journey - Preceded by flashlight And followed by the urban decay poem moon, Whose eyes hold us all in His view as the street light Flickers in and out in orange shades. Nice theme for a poem, I love it Urban decay poem Reply. Poems by Owen Johnston: Secay Decay - Poem by Owen Johnston Slowly descending The spiral staircase Into urban decay On this night long journey - Preceded by flashlight And followed by the full moon, Whose eyes hold us all in His view as the street light Flickers in and out in orange shades. Listen to this poem:
Urban Decay. - a poem by Kahepfin - All Poetry
The desert the streets are made of sand crumbling tombs, atoms they are disintegrating sidewalks and numbers bleached, ambiguous some street signs echoes and hallucinations this urban hell. I, you, us in a substance quite unknown still unidentified that is the illusion of knowledge secrets and denials to become confessions of the upcoming third millennia.
Awake or not wave upon wave silence within silence void delivering avoidance what is the word for the miracles. Under the asphalt of the night when the city streets have become a monotonous geometry of angles and straight lines, where a few strangers roam free in silence and private thought, it was then when the Scavenger of the Rare was struck by an indisputably bitter truth, a truth so bizarre and easily forgotten that none seem to notice it.
As all mortal days have it, today was simply a cascade of neglected events meaning that little or no attention had been paid to the events of another perishing day , the Weight of Time had unstoppably dissolved every single phenomenon of the decaying present into an ambiguous mist of past: But to return to this already desultory narrative, the Scavenger of the Rare having spent the whole day seeking among the Fragments of the Impermanent for signs and symbols of a meaningful and trustworthy existence, but had by some unfortunate circumstance stumbled upon quite the opposite evidence.
The truth he discovered, perhaps re-discovered for it is easily forgotten, was that…. A brief parenthesis is here peremptorily required. Millennia of ineffective thinking have putrefied the meaning of the word truth and therefore some elucidation on this matter is necessary. Even though in this day and age faith in the possibility of truth has nearly disappeared, there still remains the concept of truth as a statement made in language that accurately reflects the state of affairs it refers to.
A more ambiguous definition is virtually impossible, but a general sense can be rescued from that definition. In other words, Truth is equated to words rightfully employed. But my long conversations with the Scavenger of the Rare and our long frightfully long speculations into the nature of truth have convinced me that mankind has been deceived for far too long in this matter and a serious revision is needed in the world of epistemology. However, the Scavenger of the Rare nor myself are at all interested in clarifying human existence, instead I believe we prefer to obscure it.
They are close to being the most elusive phenomena of human existence. We impart meaning on them by constantly associating them with our perceptions. After long years of repeating words after the same objects of perception we arrive at a stable vocabulary. But when we have a novelty in our perceptions, a never-before experienced feeling or intuition, we are unable to communicate this new experience in terms of an old and therefore inadequate language.
The truth of the experience precedes the statement of the truth. So to continue… He discovered in himself a truth that made him shudder and nearly vomit in that dismal revelation. The street light was red and he waited rather impatiently for it to change its color so he could cross the street and examine an abandoned shoe on the other side he had a peculiar pleasure in spending time with the most trivial of human objects. Two cars glided in front of him as he remained magnetized with the sight of that footwear, pondering perhaps the history of its wretched condition.
But as the time came closer when the red light would fade out and in its stead a green caricature of a man would magically appear, an uncomfortable sensation sprung at the kernel of his being. In the complexity of an instant: Here I can only rescue a few scraps from the tenebrous archives of my memory. I conceived it clearly, nay, FELT it lucidly how mistaken we all are. Slowly I recovered my senses to find myself still standing at the edge of the sidewalk.
The city, if city I could call it, had transformed itself into an enormous chessboard and every individual walking in their quiet monologue I saw as hollow puppets following invisible commands that the authority of routine had imparted upon them.
The question of why we find most of us walking on sidewalks, going to work every Monday and talking to ourselves endlessly is most naturally answered by our submission to the authority of tradition, an authority whose power comes from our believing in it.
The Scavenger uttered such words in terrific excitement. I remember his wild eyes soaring from one end of the room to the other as he practically relived the earlier portion of that significant evening.
Before his sudden departure, he added,. I might wake tomorrow and return to the same systematical squandering of time, through barren alleys and among neglected benches under clouded skies. But since the revelation, I feel these, also, to be utterly meaningless activities even if they remain outside the stock of normality. No matter what activity I choose for my life I will make it a tradition and inevitably become a slave to it.
I would care less if a lightning struck me dead right now. Yet in discovering this so-called truth there is one reason that still makes me laugh in despair and it is this: In haste he disappeared from my sight and left me in a prolonged state of silent bafflement.
Awake or not wave upon wave silence within silence void delivering avoidance what is the word for the miracles that keep us alive.