Melancholia

[Aish]

the light at the centre of the apple
can be gleamed from the eyes of a Jew The Mogen David, how very clever of you! I wonder how many will read this and not know about the star shape in the center of an apple cut in half? Or the bastardization of the fruit of knowledge for that matter
as he watches a door close behind his parents,
remembers leaves, remembers fruits,
swelling in the back garden
while summer licks his fingertips.

memories and endless night
mixing in the same paint pot,
until a colour unseen by
all artists up until this point
begs to adorn the canvas. I adore this strophe.

such a useless, grim landscape,
surrounded by thousands of lights
in an empty gallery. we are all that ever was,
and anything will ever be. Melancholic, indeed. And quite true. We are what we have always been, and what we shall always be. There is nothing new under the sun.


six billion minds heading for bed
once the furnaces are cleaned,
the battlefields swept and the slaughterhouse washed,
prepared for use by those awaking.

This poem in its entirety makes me think of Tisha B'Av and mourning. But that may just be the mindset i am currently in.