War Cry

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


1. It is not you talking; it is the creaking cogs that reside amidst the gyroscope of your Spirit. It howls and growls to fuel the War that eats at the multilayered somber stories of the city that is your waking existence. It scolds at the eternal obliviousness with which you look at to your internal fabric. The ebb and flow tickle at the shores of your body, the symbol of your lifelong animality. Such a centennial tree snatched by the gale of Judgment’s day, you’re plucked like a rose, your envelope carelessly put on the ground to be stamped and chewed by the vermin, as it is now devouring you.
 

2. The relentless waves and the fervent flames of your battles evaporate to the beauty of your eternal struggle. Like Sisyphus, you lift the boulder and walk among the scales of the snake gnawing its tail. You never see its antithetical ends kissing. For you always linger away from the head-rear complex. You keep walking on the corpus and that is your predicament, for you are a weak creature. A weak creature with immeasurable significance assuming that the ground in which it marches on has no beginning nor end, no head nor tail. You struggle with the scars of Love and the spikes of Hate. Whenever you are tired, you lay out your burden on to your offspring, and you bid them farewell with a smile to convince them and yourself that all will be good. At the moment you close your eyes to rest and join your Deity, you know that you have been in War. You try to wake up and warn your progeny about this life of doom in which you have put them. Alas, it is too late.

 

3. The beach is a battlefield now. Who could have known that sand shall stink when it bathes with fire? Its smell banishes the stench of burnt flesh as well as all the remains of previous battles… It washes away, meticulously, the pain and suffering of this bloodbath… And on to the next horror, the next spawn of misfortunate pawns arrive, and on to the next battle… The boulder of existence does not get any lighter. Its matter still hammers the shoulders of your child, for the responsibility they are bearing is conjured by the Transcendent. The more they get near from their Deity, the more they are indecisive. Suddenly, flying away from the ground means death. Suddenly, staying on the ground means decay, for the vermin is still feeding on you. At the zero hour, you stand clueless. What shall you do? Should you care and quiver to the burden of inevitable blindness that follows your predicament? “No!” shall we say. Does a soldier reminisce on his mortgages when he is faced by an enemy charging at him with sharpened spears, aim-locked stingers, and a mouth wide open of resentment? Still, as a soldier, this reminiscence weighs on you, with damnation and no hope for salvation.

 

4. Let the soldier of Life be contemptuous of that stance. Let him stand haut et fort and crumble in the battle of his life. Stand and crumble, stand and crumble until he shall return to mud and dust, to finally meet the head of the snake, behead it, and offer it as tribute to the Transcendent. That is the eternal battle which does not hold meaning to the fauna and flora in the tides of the totality. "Life is War," such words were never muttered by plants nor animals. For Men, life is a chain of infinitesimal battles they take arms in, and fight for their own glory and that of their Creed. The Creed of humanity beckons however smeared Man is in his conscious existence which pours him further in mere unconsciousness, with every fall of drops of sand in the hourglass of his life. May his will mark the rocks of this Lowly World which he breathes and engenders life in!

 

5. Let the battle site soak in sweat and blood to energize the life that tears within the hearts and limbs of Men. Let our pump flow with zeal towards Life! Let this ardor towards passion fuel us to dance in the battlefield and bend the carnality that is our predicament. March upon this ground of scales as if a chorus is guiding you. Let the collective conductor within harmonize your clumsy, jittery movements. Let Life command you, let it possess you, let it course through your veins with as much vitalis essentia you are able to bear… -- And beyond that! May that mystic energy draw in the never-ending painting of eternity the nemesis you are so eager to defeat. May you know, just seconds prior to your spiritual ascension so that you can mumble to your child that which all collective wisdom points out, that this nemesis is a familiar friend, your beginning and your end: yourself. You are the Deity which waits for its Tribute to rise from the ashes and transcend this plane. You were mud and dust just yesterday, when you died in battle. You are your enemy, your friend, your god, and your War and everything that you may lay eyes on. In the museum of the meta-cosmos, Death will prevail and will consume the so-called “never-ending” painting of reality relinquished by Life. But Death is not a victor, and Life is not a loser!
 

6. Let the antithetical powers within besiege the field of your blissfully ignorant existence; may it gnaws the timestamp of your consciousness, to then make you retreat to lick your wounds and refuel in a territory semi-violated: your subconscious. Dig in that terrain, for the more you dig in the more you light up that which is dark. May your brows drip with sweat and dust, for the more you struggle in digging, the more you merge with the Transcendent. Lose yourself in the maze of your internal fabric until you cry and crawl and beg for a god-figure to extend his hand to you. For the sake of your salvation, condemn yourself to your inevitable chunk of damnation, conquer and be conquered in your War. The songs of your War will be echoed in the Hallways of Valiant Spirits for eternity! For your own sake, accept the only fate you can be worthy of: suffering!
 

7. Bring forth the godly equilibrium even through godlessness! That is the duty of he who longs to transcend and step in to the plateau of earthly salvation. Create your Vision as if your life depends on it. Shape the world not as it is but as how you want it to be. Do that while repudiating, at your best, ignorance and moral disparity. Do not let the sly smile or the nihilistic gaze rule over you. Battle arrogance and impurity just like you will battle the marauders who rape your loved ones and burn your houses. Do not cede to the temptation of thrusting, crushing, rotating the spear you gathered in the limbs of the vile ravagers. Battle your bashfulness and crippling Will to Decline, and cry like the soldier who refuses to die yet! May the oppressor within shut his muzzle; may it swallows its voices of resentment and weakness and be no more in you! May it be transmuted into Spirit, and in the aftermath, may you die so as to be free of all this! Let it be sublimated and digested by the mud of your battlefield, rich with sweat and blood once more.


Submitted: December 05, 2021

© Copyright 2022 khalil brahem. All rights reserved.

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