Some jottings of the wee hours

i. Night Beings

All I see is bright and clear
As darkness abounds
For we who hold the night dear

Leaves slice through a haze
Imposed by our dreams
Dreams that were never there

The wind torments
He who braces in its moaning slash
Like the sheep bereft of fleece

How confident we were
That a blaze could
Never perforate our chasm of despair

But then descended morning
When we scattered
And never were at all

ii. Prelude to Storm

Asleep
I fell
One surreal spring day,

To awake
To the cry
Of a winter’s night.

Thankful
To have lived
A summer’s dream;

Wistful
To exist
In autumnal emptiness.

iii. Observer

Each phase
of his life
every epoch in the stream
All that is to him
is ending

Innocence comes and goes;
All the ones he knows
are him
of yesteryear

The seasons pass;
they bring the tides of change
Winter chills,
while autumn stings

I stare and watch
A removed overseer
As those he loves
start to wane and disappear

Memories of a cherished face
echoes of a beloved voice
Whither and fade
leaving only the faintest trace

The seasons change
and the young man sits alone
trying to remember
what once was
of yesteryear

iv. A-Theory

The past is gone
The future unrealized before us
There is only the present;
but I do not live there
The present for me
is but a fond memory

v. Wall

The sound of your voice,
Is familiar and sweet
As it grazes the surface of my mind
Gashing the fabric that weaves it together,
Leaving it like the skin of my fists:
Broken, raw, and bleeding
From beating them with every ounce of my strength
Against walls of paved concrete,
Smattering the gritty surface fine shades of red,
And inflicting not a dent

vi. _Go_

The something that arose from nothing;
Absolute nonbeing, total lack of existence
Not a state, much less an articulate mess of nonsense
Which it would become, eventually
But nothing at all

As the sober philosopher is wont to say:
Ex nihilo, nihil fit
A first-order metaphysical principle, intuitively obvious to all
And–though this last is controversial–unfalsified by eons of experience
Including matters of universal origins and quantum happenstance

But I stare at what nothing was
And understand it is something after all:
A blank slate, the game board uncluttered and unplayed
The clay shapeless and unformed
Unadorned, malleable mud

The stones have yet to be placed
And we are left only to ask,
When the game is begun:
Will the play be classical,
Or the work of an amateur?

I quite like Night Beings and Observer. Those poems bring out the messages clearly. Another outstanding point that is, somehow, i can see the true feeling in both of them, at least, they are not too pompous. In my opinion, a poem should not contain any fake emotion, like copying sorrow scenes from movies, making up feelings etc. Of course, not many of us are brilliant liars. We can see the flaws in the poems. I have seen some examples in some posts in the poetry. Some of them made me a chill at my back and then I thought is you really that sad? If you were i would definitely astonished because you could pay a lot of effort on writing a surrealistic poem with affected feeling while you were in the toughest time. I would adore your EQ was somewhat high.