ArtsAutosBooksBusinessEducationEntertainmentFamilyFashionFoodGamesGenderHealthHolidaysHomeHubPagesPersonal FinancePetsPoliticsReligionSportsTechnologyTravel
  • »
  • Books, Literature, and Writing»
  • Poems & Poetry

The Echoes of Remnant Past

Updated on March 21, 2014
rant from Joseph Greer
rant from Joseph Greer
Ranting from Glen Fabian
Ranting from Glen Fabian
Brighten Up Sunshine from Naomi Hoare
Brighten Up Sunshine from Naomi Hoare
Crazy Man from from Andy Schultz
Crazy Man from from Andy Schultz
Overflow from Neal Sanche
Overflow from Neal Sanche

The Echoes of Remnant Past

By Tony DeLorger © 2014

Prematurely leaping to conclusions,

my tempered past having hidden in the shadows of me,

appears resounding in forthright damnation,

and me, having no inkling of what just emerged,

steps back in anguish with a deluded conscience.

Did my lips move, and that come from me I speculate,

knowing that it did regardless of nil intention,

and then my mind addresses the echoes of my outburst,

trying in some way to rationalise this affront of duality,

my inner self betraying me absolute.

Not only had I no control, but no understanding either,

even worse in assessing my mental stability,

but then, this verbal knee-jerk has now regressed my consciousness to a child,

peeing his pants for lack of control, a bladder full to be emptied,

and this I must swallow; my conclusions at the spout of my vessel.

What I must collect in my ineptitude, sits in waiting,

for this very outlet of blatant positioning and indignant stance,

and me, not having chewed it a bit, regurgitates it whole as if now valid,

and yet it's origins within me long passed, and mouldy,

sitting there before me ranting, with me just watching.

I am a retched soul, filled with complications I can't control,

willing to sacrifice me as collateral for them surfacing,

they, resurrected and placated and me the ventriloquist dummy,

lips going up and down, wooden and transfixed with fear,

wondering what the hell will pour forth next.

I am so filled with fragments of the unfinished,

and my vessel to the point of overflow,

I dare not think what next comes out and to whom,

I shudder, knowing my volt well,

God help me to spew in the silence of solitude.

It is surprising how much baggage we carry around with us: all those emotions and circumstances not completely dealt with, come back to haunt us.


    0 of 8192 characters used
    Post Comment

    No comments yet.