Catharsis

I have seen that language is

What separates us from our friends.

The words we say are oft received,

But not as far as we intend.

What weight have any words therefore?

Potential mass that does no good.

Our words resound in nothing more

Than vague intent misunderstood.

Enough of words that never move,

Perverse in their inert content.

They travel both in time and space,

But not received as they were sent.

The page alone may understand

The truth within the cage I’d guilt.

Now simple thought, now something grand,

'Til allegory I have built

To me. Catharsis more exact

Than any tantrum ever brings,

Throughout our time, remains intact

To open minds and topple kings.

For who knows of Achilles rage,

Or Agamemnon's thoughtless rule,

But by recital of the sage

And Homer's perfect, metered tool?

I'm spoiled in books, whose words contain

A meaning far transcending time,

And tortured by this shallow age

Whose useless drivel knows no rhyme.

Some peoples' lives, as they express,

Are short of contemplation's form.

I do not care for fashion's dress,

Or who said what, or who fucked whom.

Intangibles, opinions, games,

and lower still are thoughts of men,

No doubt nor wonder, will nor shame

Nor nothing to deserve my pen.

Though you, my dear, are deep to me,

And you express beyond all words.

Your screams and rage, my ecstasy,

So aptly spoken, never heard.

In this, your cries bring utter peace,

Some masochistic subtlety,

In your catharsis, my release,

And at a cost that's lost to me.

I couldn't know, and never will.

That's not to say I wouldn't care

What brought about the bitter ill,

Although the story's written there.

Perhaps on canvas one may find

The nature of this mystery,

In paint and blood, and pressed in time,

The mind forbidden, heart may see.