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#QuemPensa é Spiralist: “Anthony”

#QuemPensa é Spiralist: “Anthony”

Saying in time he'll comprehend how much life is a godsend


Here’s history shrouded in mystery

The geometry which parallels life

Of a man shielded by secrecy

To obscure the anguish of his strife

Though I have gone and done some digging

I’ll take you back to the beginning

 

The middle child of the brood

In the shadows there he stood

How to harmlessly find a clean way out, he wandered

From the patriarchy of a belligerent drunkard

But the mother anchored his sanity

An angel who could put his heart at ease

The one true love he would ever know

For his sinless heart would never grow
Past his mother’s premature disease

Which left him crying and on his knees

Uncontrollably sobbing and swearing aloud

That no further attachments were to be allowed

 

Fast forward into early adulthood

In theater he was found understood

Having learned to conceal emotion

He set his ambition in motion

And though he was but an amateur

His will was found to be undeterred

 

Soon he met this small town girl

Sweeping smile and eyes like pearls

Something about her was vaguely reminiscent

So in her bed he was found to be dehiscent

Thus vows of marriage followed

He’d been unknowingly swallowed

Into compromise

Where all dreaming dies

 

It sure did not take very long

For her demands to do him wrong

Family men are to provide

And leave their acting days behind

“Let’s be a family of four

Let our grandeur drop to the floor”

And from there he built a grudge

Which we cannot fully judge

 

By the time her wishing was whole

He’d come fully into the role

Of a man confined to a play

Where one’s own dreaming had no say

And the boys were taught in blind allegiance

With devotion so nearly religious

That you’d say they were apostles

Manically quoting his gospels

 

Dining grimly by candlelight

Under the darkness of the night

Tiny hands smeared in concrete

From hardship days that repeat

Building home brick by brick

Whether healthy or sick

Twisted musclesand sunburst skin

A million blisters, figure thin

Child labor so unforgettable

Somehow did not feel regrettable

At least they had a home

Which they could call their own

 

The boys did not grow to do well in school

Leave it to him to mold them into tools

Mirror children of the patriarch

Living only to serve a monarch

On a kingdom ripe with cecity

Soon employed by pure necessity

Under command of the family business

The inner workings of which I’ve been witness

Under the iron fist

Ascendancy persists

For if he could not act for a living

Of their own art he’d be unforgiving

 

But soon enough all flowers bloom

The elder one becomes a groom

Of a woman of modest roots

Soon to flame the fans of dispute

For nothing mattered more than wealth

Though their loving was of sound health

For three years in contemptible mockery

She lived in that ever-growing property

Raising money to leave together

And escape these birds of a feather

For three years, undesirable

The scars so undeniable

Permanent heresy

Suffering tyranny

Neither a servant nor prisoner

Berated in front of visitors

Rightly she nearly left them there

Their indifference she could not bear

But she carried a son in her womb

And she would not raise him in doom and gloom

At last they found their haven

And left that land of ravens

 

That being said, a king needs worshipping

Thus he promised to leave everything

To his heirs once time came to retire

No real intent could ever transpire

Thus they worked hard into their middle age

Not knowing they had built up any rage

Soon to be ignited in heat

In the face of his grand deceit

But his promising mantra kept itching like flees:

“All I do, in the end, is for you and not me”

Unjustly accused like witches

So he could keep all his riches

Of scamming and pillaging

Devotion extinguishing

 

And the elder wept

Plunging into debt

Just to start anew

Just to make it through

Kneeling for a loan

Just to feed his own

Starting from zero

An unsung hero

A worthy husband

Leaving his wife stunned

A decent father

Suchlike no other

 

For years, resorted to silence,

But old age compels reliance

And no bucolic solitude

Can strip away the magnitude

Of rusted gears and disintegration

No room for denial or negation

The spawn they cast away

Must not be kept at bay

 

Single immovable resolution:

To earn repentance and absolution

 

Their children’s hearts in grime

Softened by way of time

Some finding feeble evidence

Some aiming for inheritance

And some trying to forgive

But unable to forget

 

Anthony too must come to terms

As he draws closer to the worms

Power hunger feeds fiendish arts

But never feeds our vacant hearts

Reverts back to creation

Such eluding elation

Lets the soul soar through the page

Breaks free from his inner cage

Pens a story out of the blue

This is what he was meant to do!

 

A dying man’s last breath

Lead by the hand of death

To witness his own funeral

Empty stares on his burial

Faking detachment in his writing

Though his despair is far too biting

The ending has no lesson in sight

Just a soul given to quiet light

 

With the end looming daily

And his hairs growing palely

At night he dreams of an empty stage

And his mother unaltered by age

Whispering something in his hear

Right before she disappears

Saying in time he’ll comprehend

How much life is a godsend

 

To know your days are numbered

And exist unencumbered

Provides life with meaning

Sets the soul for cleaning

 

He still wrestles with his demons
With the passing of the seasons
Now only time may tell
How he bids us farewell.

 

“Ferida” 3 – Pedro Lopes