Applied psychological homeopathy i.e. taking a depressed person
through a renaissance cemetery in Rome; a tirade
Look at these remains of lives!
Huge slabs of concrete erected
to venerate bones and dust.
Memories transformed to mausoleum
sarcophagus, and tomb.
The world is cold to anachronic
feelings of personal sorrow,
of reverence, of adulation, that
in all vanity belong to history;
cold to these conceited proclamations
of one person’s insular, private
passion for another.
How the gargoyles mock us!
Moss, ivy and lichen creep
where lime can be sucked from
porous mortar, crumbling it to sand.
Roots, worms, and ice, crack
and set aside granite lids,
break up with irremissible right
names, words, dates, known only
to a distant, dispassionate few.
All containment is rudely exposed,
all content seized, rots and decays,
all deviant encroachment is levelled.
Nature marches onwards
towards demise and dissolution,
towards renewal and growth,
determined and resolute,
indifferent to why or which!
As wind and rain thrashes statues,
mossy green lines trickle down
from sightless, marbled eyes;
smooth, closed lips stay forever sealed.
Tears may fall from depressed eyes,
but, a flow bereft of passion
crystallizes to salt at the mouth,
forms dry precipitate feelings,
monuments to feelings past, that
taste bitter licked by a tongue unable
to turn stagnant pain into words,
by a soul confronted by the futility
of exalting death over life.
The mood and setting is almost baroque!
O to purge old depressing memories,
to value living, to leave the past,
to enjoy the unplanned mystery
of universal ageing;
riding on its leading edge,
enriching your mind as it leaves behind
all you’ve experienced, all that has been;
all influential impressions,
cherished, fulfilling, and despised,
fading into a foggy knowingness,
becoming harmlessly meta-philosophical;
invigorating you to start anew
to want to rejoin, thronging, vital,
rush-hour traffic again.
Saved now, by the nothingness of death,
move on and choose to exist,
leave the ferryman asleep in his dinghy,
for across from the bar,
is only the sprawling chaos
of cold-stone graves!
© Gothicman 2018