Blunt

Yes, I am blunt;

I will forget your name,

With impunity that belongs,

To kings and lunatics alone.

 

Yes, I am blunt;

I will call a spade a spade,

And a heart a heart,

And leave you wondering:

What just happened?

 

You wish I cared enough,

To ruffle the feathers one at a time,

Unlike a Colossus amidst a forest

That has grown over centuries.

 

You wish I cared enough,

To keep to myself the volley of questions,

To not disturb the flows of thought

That have grown laminar with much patience.

 

But you forget, my dear Sirs and Dames,

That I walk barren myself,

And wish upon you the very same:

The unattached ease with which

Lunatics become kings.

 

For the forest breeds darkness,

And the darkness breeds the lies

That keep us from becoming

Everything that we can be,

But are not.

 

For History was written amidst

The most outrageous turbulence,

And the liberated were those,

To whom anchors were of no consequence,

Whose identities were not rewritten

When the waters washed away

The inks of illusion.

 

I do not exist as a fixed point in time,

And it kills me to see hearts tear and attach

To ideas and biases and hymns and speeches,

And beauties and families and sciences,

The rationalities amongst irrationalities,

And histories and stories and her stories,

And their stories and the worst of the lot:

 

Your stories.

 

I bite and spar and tear and rejuvenate,

With a promise that I see in you,

Nothing more than what the circumstances,

Have made of you.

 

Yes, I am blunt;

I wear my heart on the sleeve,

And seek to see it destroyed,

For I rise with the tenacity,

A thousand suns couldn't afford,

With all their fuel.

 

Yes, I am blunt;

I tire of the slimes and machinations,

That keep the machine running;

My dear Sirs and Dames,

Art is long and Time is fleeting;

I am busy running;

What about you?