Pessimism

  A whirling whisk of rotor blades stirs the puffy batter of string-shaped clouds, its lifting force, a dragging weight to the metal rotaries that flap a pair of windswept wings. The skies sense a certain groan, unmistakable, in the wavering flight of unsteady airfoils that seem mistakable for unsuspecting onlookers who shall be left unnamed.

  Directionless, the angles bend at the swipe of a sudden gale, its drafts thieving the helpless craft amid tussling, tossing drafts of flowing current, brash and shaken, rattled and brazen.

 ㅤ The lonely sea reaches out, demanding that we part with our 3,000 feet of altitude, but we weren't given much of a choice on whether the height we drifted in was ours to cede, for the ruling of the higher spheres have always claimed the reigns up here and while we sway and steer, despair knows, somehow, exactly where to find us. 

  The hierarchy of control starts and ends at the hands of nature, whether we deem it true or not. There is no escape in the limits of mankind, but ─

we can damn sure try, at least...

      just not today.

  We are stranded, standing beside the haplessly heart-clenching mound of a flying vessel ─ though now, it should be renamed a dying vessel, because the enkindled crate of scrap, and flickering heap of shredded junk, still latching on to its final moments of solidity before its vital signs on the heart-beat monitor flat-line into a dredged-up bed of chips and flakes strewed and dispersed, sunk and submerged by the granular and gritty shore, the field of grain stained forevermore;

   but the funny thing is, before it was swallowed by flame, and before it had crumbled to ash, the useless carrier seemed almost a sermon before the burial site of the soon-to-be-dead party of victims to Mother Nature, soothing us into a state of acceptance for our entombment.

  My only hope is that future explorers stumble upon my gravestone and really read its carving: "If I am found intact, make it so I am no longer that, and let me dip and meld and ebb away into the rolling quilt of salty foam so that it may envelop me whole, like the under-watery inhabitants of sea: the quiet offscourings."

  It'll be quite the lengthy message, so I ponder starting it now, scrawling the writings into stone before

           I

            lose

              my

                life

                    and no one thinks to save me an urn…

  but desperate times call for desperate measures and so I'll have to settle for a jar.

  Farallon, a member of the luckless team, extended his hand and broke my train of thoughts. See ─ I signed up to an air touring agency to be taken on a scenic flight around the world, and now the pilot is somewhere swathed by swelling waves and spilt cascades. The service allowed for a maximum of five sightseers at a time, to not bombard the weight of the chopper, but suppose it falls anyway?

  What are we to do now? I haven't even learned the names of the crew of people I'm now stuck with on an island just off the coast of whoknowswhere. But I know who takes charge of the situation. The 'leader' of a pitiful pack, shall we say.

Even from having just met the guy, it wasn't hard to tell Farallon always had something to say ~and at times like these, a little speech of encouragement really goes a long way~ in tricking the band of dopey twits into thinking we will actually find a means out of here without the slightest trace of normalcy or state of things not quite so kindly enough to win in our favour;

  smack-dab, the test of patience wears me out faster than the dread that sprouts its set of roots across the loam and soil and clay that hides the bones that don't decay, while the layered sediments that shelter limbs and flesh and meat all meshed into one, the soil, a hoarding miser, relishing its handy traps and gimmick ploys to put stuck souls like me to bed, to rest, to croak a rushed finale of meaningless words in an attempt at wishing away the world with a proper adieu despite the soundless sigh that will arise and fall back to the floor without another ear to catch its drip and trip and limp and dip into the dust where it belongs.

Oh spare me the cruel net of catacombs clipped like a gentle, swaying pair of arms from Death herself, and so, bear me my load, I ask the crust of earth to brace itself a bassinet, in advance, for I must warn the heaviness of burdened minds, like that of mine, will otherwise surely capsize, thus I implore the sand and stones and dunes and bones to cushion up their cradle propped and build a bank that won't be flopped, a crib of slit that I can't topple over and dismantle, for who knows the damage I could cause? What more can the subsiding shore and tide take from the slumping weight of a sorry state and tempter of fate, and can it really last, provided, that the landmass left behind is blighted, for it isn't I that ends lopsided.

  Quivered breaths thrum out in prayers, in shaken soughs matched by the woeful, wafting wind, the mutterings of "hail mary's" unlike myself, the spells I cast existing by themselves; the sleepless night that drones us by has us getting ahead of ourselves.

  I used to scoff and scorn at hopeful speech givers like him── but after facing what I had faced ──on the subsequent days of treachery and near-death experiences, the spear with which Farallon had used to strike the tirelessly thirsting tiger that fought its way through foliage and forestation to usurp its dominance in this meager isle, abandoned and stripped of delectable, writhing morsels such as I to take easy pickings off of and haul onto the rigidity dinner table of cobbled slabs on gravel mountains that protrude like pedestals, or totems, only beasts are fit to stand upon, for the ravening brutes of the brutal biomes, barbaric, bellicose, too busy brawling to buy into blessings of mercy or weak links to soft things that humans like too much: out here, the frail of hearts will blacken into steel-cold blood, without enough warmth― the waning buds of fear, and doubt, and gloom, all close-knitted and matted and coiled, bodaciously, fittingly fueled and spoiled by the bleak feedings of an emptying mind, seemed… now … things of the past.

It was then, at the wisp's end of life, the threat of a flimsy thread coming apart in the silent snip of a split -scaring me stiff- in its fluttery flitter, almost slips from the sultry slick sweat of my soggy palms, the fluttering wire, not so thin anymore. A sense of powerlessness is plucked from out of my perpetual pit of pessimism.

     And I owe it all to Farallon.

-

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~ poetic rendition ~

{specially composed format)

-

-

A whirling whisk of rotor blades

stirs the puffy batter 

of string-shaped clouds,

its lifting force,

a dragging weight 

to the metal rotaries

that flap 

a pair of windswept wings.

The skies sense

a certain groan, unmistakable,

in the wavering flight

of unsteady airfoils

that seem mistakable

for unsuspecting onlookers

who shall be left unnamed.

Directionless, the angles bend

at the swipe of a sudden gale,

its drafts thieving 

the helpless craft amid

tussling, tossing drafts of flowing

current, brash and shaken,

rattled and brazen.

~

~

The lonely sea 

reaches out,

demanding that we

part with our

3,000 feet

of altitude,

but we 

weren't given

much of a choice

on whether the height

we drifted in

was ours to cede,

for the ruling

of the higher spheres

have always claimed

the reigns up here 

and while we sway and steer,

despair

knows, somehow, exactly 

where to find us.

The hierarchy of control

starts and ends

at the hands of

nature,

whether we deem it

true or not.

There is no escaping

the limits of

mankind,

but ─

we can damn sure

try, at least.

Just not today.

~

~

We are stranded,

standing beside the 

haplessly heart-clinching

mound of a flying vessel─

though now,

it should be renamed

a dying vessel,

because 

the enkindled crate of scrap,

and flickering heap

of shredded junk,

still latching on

to its final moments of

solidity

before its vital signs

on the heart-beat monitor

flat-line 

into a dredged-up bed of 

chips and flakes

strewed and dispersed,

sunk and submerged

by the granular and gritty shore,

the field of grain

stained forevermore;

but the funny thing is,

before it was swallowed by flame,

and before it had crumbled to ash,

the useless carrier 

seemed almost a

sermon

before the burial site

of the soon-to-be-dead

party of victims to 

Mother Nature,

soothing us into a state

of acceptance 

for our entombment.

~

~

My only hope is that

future explorers stumble

upon my gravestone

and really read its carving:

"If I am found intact,

make it so I am 

no longer that,

and let me dip

and meld and ebb

away into the rolling

quilt of salty foam

so that it may

envelop me

whole,

like under-

watery

inhabitants of sea:

the quiet

offscourings."

It'll be quite the 

lengthy message,

so I ponder

starting it now,

scrawling the writings

into stone

before

I lose

my

life

and

no one

thinks

to

save me an urn.

...but desperate times

call for desperate

measures

and so

I'll

have to

settle

for a jar.

~

~

Farallon, 

a member of the luckless team,

extended his

hand

and broke my 

train of thoughts.

See ─ I signed up

to an air touring agency

to be taken on 

a scenic flight around

the world,

and now the pilot

is somewhere swathed 

by swelling waves,

and split cascades.

The service allowed

for a maximum

of five sightseers

at a time,

to not bombard the

weight of the chopper,

but suppose it 

falls anyway?

~

~

What are we to do now?

I haven't even

learned the names of

the crew of people

I'm now stuck with on an

island just off the

coast of ─whoknowswhere─

but I know who takes

charge of the situation.

The 'leader' of a pitiful

pack, shall we say.

~

Even from having

just met the guy,

it wasn't hard to tell

Farallon always had 

something

to

say

~and at times like these,

a little speech of encouragement

really goes a long way~

in tricking the band

of dopey twits

into thinking 

we will

actually

find a means

out of here

without the slightest

trace of normalcy

or state of things,

not quite so kindly

enough

to

be

in

our

favour;

smack-dab, the test

of patience wears

me out

faster than the

dread that sprouts

its set of roots

across the loam

and soil and clay

that hides the

bones

that don't decay,

while the layered

sediments

sheltering

limbs and flesh and meat

all meshed into one,

the soil, a hoarding miser,

relishing its handy traps

and gimmick ploys

to put

stuck souls like me

to bed,

to rest,

to croak

a rushed finale of

meaningless words

in an attempt

at wishing away

the world

in a

proper

adieu

despite the

soundless sigh that will

arise and fall

back to the floor

without another

ear to catch

its drip

and trip

and limp

and dip

into the dust where

it belongs.

~

~

Oh spare me the cruel net

of catacombs

clipped like a gentle,

swaying pair of arms

from Death herself,

and so, bear me my load,

I ask the crust of earth to

brace itself a bassinet,

in advance, for I must warn

the heaviness of

burdened minds,

like that of mine,

will otherwise

surely capsize,

thus I implore

the sand and stones

and dunes and bones

to cushion up their

cradle propped

and build a bank that won't be flopped,

a crib of slit that I can't top-

-ple over and dismantle,

for who knows the damage I could cause?

What more can the subsiding shore and tide

take from the slumping weight

of a sorry state and

tempter of fate,

and can it really last,

provided, that the

landmass left is blighted

and it isn't I

that ends

lopsided.

~

~

Quivered breaths

thrum out in prayers,

in shaken soughs matched

by the woeful, wafting wind,

the mutterings of

"hail mary's"

unlike myself,

the spells I cast

existing by themselves;

the sleepless night that drones us by

has us getting ahead of ourselves.

~

I used to scoff and scorn

at hopeful speech-givers

like him,

but after

facing what I had faced,

── on the subsequent days

of treachery and 

near-death experiences,

the spear with which

Farallon had used

to strike

the tirelessly thirsting tiger

that fought its way

through foliage and forestation 

to usurp its dominance in this

meager isle, abandoned and

stripped of

delectable, writhing morsels 

such as I

to take easy pickings off of

and haul onto the rigidity 

dinner table of

cobbled slabs

on gravel mountains

that protrude

like pedestals, or totems,

only beasts are

fit to stand upon,

for the ravening brutes of the brutal biomes,

barbaric, bellicose,

too busy brawling

to buy into blessings of

mercy or

weak links to

soft things

that humans like

too much:

out here,

the frail of hearts

will blacken

into steel-cold blood,

without

enough

warmth ──

the waning buds of

fear, and doubt, and gloom,

all close-knitted and matted and coiled,

bodaciously, fittingly fueled and spoiled

by the bleak feedings of an emptying mind,

seemed, now,

things

of

the

past.

~

~

It was then, at the wisp's end of life,

the threat of a flimsy thread

coming apart

in the silent snip of

a split,

-scaring me stiff-

in its fluttery flitter,

almost slips from

the

sultry

slick

sweat

of my

soggy

palms,

the fluttering wire,

not so thin anymore.

A sense of powerlessness

is plucked from out of

my perpetual pit

of pessimism.

And I owe

it

all

to

Farallon.

─

─ - ─

── - ──