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peterdawes — The Hollow Echo of Eternity
by-nc-nd
Published: 2008-05-29 12:34:40 +0000 UTC; Views: 439; Favourites: 9; Downloads: 7
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Description
is there anyone out there?is there anybody listening?
sometimes it appears as though
the ears of the cosmos
have closed themselves off
from every prayer,
every invocation,
i have directed to them.
every burnt offering.
every candle lit,
every moment spent
crawling upon
bruised knees
begging for the eyes of heaven
to open themselves up to me.
i do not see sense
in this chaos.
i do not see reason
in this madness.
i only see capriciousness
within the plans of the fates
who have deigned me to be
the pawn
the object of their whims
to be tossed about
as they see fit.
how long until he breaks?
how long until he
curses god
and dies?
how long until he cries out
begging for us to stop
pleading us to do anything
to make the pain go away?
how long until the sinner
laying prostrate
before the altar
finally buckles
underneath the weight
of his own curse?
is there anyone out there?
does anybody listen to the pleas
of the fallen
any longer?
do the lights of heaven
still shine;
or has whatever higher power
running this show
truly died
the nietzschian death?
has the king abdicated?
and if so,
to whom do i address this letter?
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Comments: 40
This is magnificent!!! In fact all of your work that i have read so far is truly wonderful! I am looking quite forward to reading more, but this is amazing...I know the feeling.
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I don't know if all of your great poetry will fit in my fav folder. XD
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A beautiful expression of the sentiment. I was very glad for the Neitzsche end reference - one of my first thoughts on this was of the phrase "God is dead."
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It begged to be stated. 
Thank you for the compliment.
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I love the pace of this, it really shows the anger.
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Thank you kindly, my dear.
An irony, though, in the immortal shaking his fist at the cosmos as though one such as he deserves a hearing.
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Does anyone really deserve it? That's the question we should be asking.. we are but flies to the gods, they being like small boys.
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Like flies, perhaps, but a part of me would like to believe there is some benevolence within the hearts of small boys. Mine possessed a bit himself.
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Yes, occasionally they show some compassion and go, 'Well, I think we've screwed this one up enough...'
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So, when do I reach this point?
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That's something we all should wonder.
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Curse the wretched fool who denies his emotions and turns away on his own accord.
Excelently written, Peter - as your works always are.
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You are a kind soul, Kelly. Thank you for the compliment.
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Sie sind sehr willkommen, Peter.
German - I'll leave it to you to translate.
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Oh dear. If only my mother were still alive. She would know how to translate that.
Blessed be the information superhighway, which brings us Babelfish.
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Hint; googletranslator.com
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Ah, I wasn't aware of that before. Thank you.
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I am nothing if not a cynic.
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That last line screamed sarcasm. Wonderful poem; sad state of affairs. I felt a particular affinity with this stanza:
how long until he breaks?
how long until he
curses god
and dies?
how long until he cries out
begging for us to stop
pleading us to do anything
to make the pain go away?
It isn't only lost love that makes us crumble, or lost possessions, or lost self. It is the feeling that either we are being toyed with for another's perverse enjoyment or that no one powerful exists at all. That is what makes it all feel so hopeless: That we are merely dust motes in an empty universe. Thank you for speaking our anger. You did it extremely well.
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It is an anger shared by mortal and immortal alike. Are we being toyed with? Is there any benevolence within the cosmos? Or is the void above us as bereft of hope as the darkest night? I still wonder, I must confess. Even when she is a presence within my soul.
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Oh, Peter. Sir, you've summarized with such succint clarity, the agony of my decades. Thank you for this, Peter. My tears are all I can offer as accolades. Please accept them.
Bravo, Poet. Bravo.
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Thank you kindly, sir. Penned partly with you in mind as I know we share a common struggle. Accept my empathy and my thanks.
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I'm honored to have both. Thank you.
I wish I could match the power you put into these words. This, more than anything else, demonstrates why you are The Poet -- and I am not a poet.
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You are much more of a poet than you give yourself credit, sir.
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Thank you, Peter, but I concede to so skilled a bard as you.
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And yet, I still feel as though I am a child playing with finger paints. But thank you just the same, dear friend.
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I understand. Despite all the accolades I'm given, whenever I look back on something I've written, I feel as if I scrawled it with crayons and even the graffiti plasterers are better prosists than I.
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Ah...le cher Frederique! A passion of my youth, and still a fascination of sorts. ::smiles::I agree with the above poster, I am complete sympathy and empathy with the above.
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The voice of heaven, still as a pond. Without a breeze to displace the waters. Master Nietzsche often seems to be proven the victor in the eternal debate.
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Let's just say the cynic isn't the only one who has done this.
Believe me, I know exactly how this feels.
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Sad that you know such a feeling, but at the same time the cynic appreciates the sentiment.
Thank you kindly for the favorite.
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No, thank you for writing this. It expressed something I never really could and that means a lot to me so 
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