Leviticus

Leviticus

There once lived a man
discontent.
Surrounded by many,
loved by none.

He haven't companions,
his quarters: sensible ... spartan.
His lifestyle:
ordered, miserly, breathless.

He disapproved of everything.
Of everything, he disapproved.
Neither of avarice nor any sin,
he believed himself tempted.

Leviticus

It was an irritable,
deliciously miserable day
when a strange,
indiscernable tune did play.

From a barely audible sonata,
it grew to a mournful lament.
Climbing, ever climbing,
it became a Song of Clement.

Where it might touch one's soul,
and warm it to the very depths.
It failed but to induce
annoyance.

Of its strangeness,
he thought naught, it was told.
Choosing simply to ignore
and continue counting his gold.

As long as he paid no heed,
so long the song endured.
Ever changing, in pitch, in timbre.
In its intricacies, in its structure.

I spoke of everything.
Of life.
Of death.
Of the universe.

Of the Summer,
it spoke of heavy air.
Glaring light, thirst,
and sand bleached fair.

Of the Spring,
it spoke of fresh grass.
Flowing streams, wild flowers.
A period of the finest finesse.

Of the Autumn,
it spoke of falling leaves.
Foilage of reds, oranges, yellows.
Of the beauty hidden in the trees.

Of the Winter,
it spoke of the bitter frost.
Withering of life, scalding cold.
Of the child-like innocence lost.

It spoke of these and more,
the imaginary dulcet voice
bearing gifts of eloquence
and of a world enticed.

Yet, he had not a care for these worlds,
for he had no imagination
and had seen no profitable use for it.
He scorned it.

Day and Night,
From Night to Day,
the tune continued.
Continued to play.

He could not sleep --
the song kept him awake.
He could not eat --
the song took his appetite.

He could not rest,
the song did its best.
He could not work,
the song drained him flat.

His annoyance turned to
irrepressable anger and outrage!
Everywhere he went, everything he did,
the infernal song endured!

What he worked so hard to ignore,
now become his sole obsession.
He sought the source desperately,
to quell it, to quench it.
To destroy it.

He quested high and low,
made inquiries
and went to extreme highs (and lows)
yet to no avail.

He scoured the earth,
turned over the land,
drank the sea, but,
yet to no avail.

He felt for Religion,
he found nothing.
He begged of Science,
they confessed everything.

Everything but the source
of his torment, his madness.

Then, he realised.
There was but one place
he had no probed. --
His heart.

He drew a blade and
plunged it into his heaving chest.
He thrust it downwards
to expose the shrivelled, beating heart.

He stared at the vivisection,
and smiled grimly.
He fell in his own blood, unmoving.
Dead, and finally free.

From the Song of Life and its torment.
Free in the arms of Death.
In its emptiness,
and its silence.