Taunting Sadness

He’s lost inside his wedding bells

The ones imagination sell

They’re making him a ne’er do well

Or a key man in a prison cell

 

I may strike a match to burn hope’s flame upon your candle’s wick

Or strike you down into your grave and douse it just as quick

Strike emotions from your heart inside this twisted magic trick

 

For though I am in constant change

And though my core is so deranged

Still you must play my little game

Until my funeral date’s arranged

Which although it sounds a little strange

Is not so far outside our range

The feud we fuel with hellish flames

Is making loving men insane

 

Yes, even you and though you will protest in voices trite as any in verse

You will soon feel the rage of hate; this hateful game is pitiful

As pitiful as man himself.

As the paupers in their rags that hope and dream and pray in sweet ignorance to be as great and

grand as Solomon and Caesar,

As the pompous powers of payment and piss, put on their crowns, and sit on down in well padded

thrones to proclaim themselves immortal; as the court men mutter of the crown’s sharp thorns

that will have their fair king mortalized and buried bones. And why all this? For blasphemous

bureaucracy.

And damned dukes and damned peasants, the regiment and rebellion,

Will at last draw arms and draw blood.

But in the heat of the pitiful rage the reasons evaporate up into the heavens 

 

This same delusion you see as life’s waste, is the same that makes you remain chaste

It is the same I serve you on a plate.

So do not scoff and walk away in false lament to pine or pray.

Instead, remove this woeful sigh, this sinking cloud you sit upon, this fucking waste

of fucking time. This screwy little screw we do. Insert yourself on fortune’s way. This world is filled

with pleasure from the flowers and rainbows and happy roaming bands of whores

Oh my, this jest has run it’s course

 

Your face is far too long for me

and mine is far too short, I think

Not for drinking drinks and dancing free

but for wallowing in cruel fate’s glare

But for following this pathetic woeful trail

 

But perhaps I’ll find beneath my skin

That this boisterous life is much too thin

And Satan’s strife will soon begin

Forgive me father for I have sinned

Oh, forgive me father for I have sinned

For in strife’s fatal face, I’ve grinned

Calvin Rezen

Originally appeared in the 2013-2014 edition of Outside In