Dazed & Confused

Dazed and confused, he stumbled into that lonely place,

Blissful but ominous, the sound of silence

Covered its atmosphere as was typical on weekdays.

He tripped, he buckled,

With no solemnity the poor wretch

Falling to rest on that ridged pew bench,

He found comfort, although temporarily,

As the eyes of the lord graced his adversity.

Intoxicated by the frankincense and myrrh

He pondered, completely unaware

For where he was, or why he was there.

Dazed and confused, he looked around

Driven further into that craziness

By his solitude, and his senselessness,

His delusions manifest as an ominous sound.

As though without the righteous intention

He sought the word of the Lord, when,

He noticed a book tucked behind the pew, so inconspicuous,

He reached over, he grabbed it,

And flicked through as if it were his own

How audacious this man, this savage!

O’ so insolent, though with a pinch of innocence

He skimmed through the notebook, little and black,

It was covered in writing, from the front to the back.

Besides the credentials written on the front,

It read: “The key to happiness is acceptance,

take control of your surroundings.

Pain does not determine your destiny.”

It repeated throughout,

The book said no more, except these words

Across many of its pages, some of which were torn out.

At the back of the black book,

there was an address and a date.

Although unfamiliar to the man,

He felt a strong resonance

Enough of which he felt a connection,

Insignificant to most, yet to him it was fate.

Dazed and confused, he stumbled towards fate

Out of the kindness of his heart,

To return this book, insignificant to most

Yet to him it was a sign from God,

Perhaps this was a test, perhaps a new start?

Arriving to the owner’s address, the door was unhinged

Chilling as it was foreboding,

He walked in unwelcome, yet still welcomed in.

It was all a mess, a mistake he now contemplated

As a trick from the fallen one,

Could he have been tricked, the poor wretch,

Into the house of God’s most forgotten son?

The walls, distressed and partially splattered in red

Surely an accident, or a burglary,

There were signs, but nothing left for more to be said.

The wretch continued to look, he shouted desperately:

“Hello! I am here to return your little black book,

For I too am in pain, though unlike you,

I cannot control my destiny.”

With no avail, he mused on calling for help

Until, suddenly, a memorandum on a desk:

“Meeting at 12:00, Leytonstone cemetery.”

He felt a strong resonance, though not knowing why,

He was overwhelmed by this feeling

Of sadness, Of blue.

Not knowing why he felt so horrified,

He paced in desperation, debating on what to do

When suddenly, stumbling into an abandoned room

He noticed: “Look, over there… An opened satchel,

Surely this is much too good to be true?”

Dazed, but certainly not confused,

Even a madman could discern this large sum.

Nonetheless, within the satchel

The tellers receipt labelled £20,000.

Whether this was a sign from God

Or a trick from the fallen one,

He did not hesitate, as the hopeful wretch

Taking what was his and without mercy

Grabbed the money before he could contemplate.

The poor wretch exclaimed: “What luck has come to me,

Sent down from the heavens, O’ thank you,

Thank you, thy Lord, for now I can spoil myself,

With the pleasures that I desire.”

This he rambled, as he walked,

With no direction, at all.

He was guided by his subconscious,

His head, no longer cognisant

Yet his surroundings were clear,

As he noticed the funny looks, the stares,

And that feeling of paranoia mixed with fear.

Did they know? Was it his deceitful smile?

Or was it the crazed look in his eyes,

That was so hard to conceal.

He stumbled at the inn and ordered his usual,

“I’ll have a pint of lager, with a shot of vodka!”;

No wonder he was so delusional!

Anxious and paranoid, his conscious now encroached

Albeit manic, a strong feeling lingered.

He mused on the memorandum

Which for some reason, he figured,

Was another sign from God,

Perhaps another test, that he could not abandon!

After intense consideration, he shouted:

“For what good is this money, if my conscious

Screams with indignity! That wretched grave,

I know not why it plagues my mind,

For what importance could it have to me?

Alas, I will go. I will go to the cemetery

And seek for that which I wish to not find!”

He stumbled out of the inn,

Dazed and again confused

He ventured towards the cemetery.

As he approached, he felt smoulder,

London was grey, London was colder.

Finally, arriving to this dreaded location

He wandered the desolate place,

Inauspicious as a half-hearted endeavour can be

the sound of silence, cut through the air

And through his mind, which grew more deranged;

He screamed out to the world,

Crazier than Lear in his soliloquies.

Stepping back a pace, he turned back swiftly

As to walk away and leave this awful place.

Spotting in the distance, fresh-cut flowers

That glimmered bright like a beacon,

Like a bee, he gravitated towards them.

Illuminating his path, he walked closer

And experienced an intense feeling,

It wrenched on his heart, his throat dried up.

He reached the tomb where the flowers lay;

His vision went dark, barely could he see

And read: “Here lies Patricia Diaz, beloved Wife,

And beloved Daughter. May she rest in peace,

16/03/80 – 21/09/17.”

Nothing else was written,

On this humble epitaph.

Patricia, his wife, had passed away

Now he realised, where he was

And why he was there,

A moment of clarity, for a man riddled with insanity.

Running back to a home he now remembered,

As memories of his lover

Were now all that he could remember.

Retracing the words in his little black book,

He wept in sorrow and remembered:

“Of course, the church!

My final plea for forgiveness,

For what was to become of me;

To finally take control of my surroundings,

Of my destiny. By the palm of my hands

And the power of my will, to be remembered

As an act of love and fear,

With the heart of Romeo, and the mind of Lear!”

He had left this book after his final prayer,

Ready to face his destiny

Not in this life, but the next,

Where his wife now slept, for eternity.

He had gone home, to the silence,

The loneliness, louder than any noise;

It consumed him, controlled him,

And guided his hand with which

He used to solemnly betray the Lord

As he cried: “There stands before God

The limit of all senses, but beyond the limit

Stands God, in whom there is no sense.

So let me find God, where there is no sense,

And only senselessness!.”

Remembering this all,

He now stumbled home.

Regaining his sanity,

He still tripped, and he still buckled.

His psychotic delirium, self-induced.

He remembered, touching his head.

Blunt trauma. Though slowly fading,

He feared, only temporarily.

Home again, but never again home.

The mess, the chaos,

All of those empty bottles,

A cry for help, an act of pathos.

His vast material possessions did not suffice;

Neither did the money, nor the vice;

Salvation could not be bought…

Conflicted, he pondered:

“Should I call for help? A friend?

My family? No, of course not,

Why should they care!

Men don’t cry, my pain is not theirs!”

Thus, he wept, and he wept,

Still dazed and confused;

Gripping onto the little black book,

Hoping for salvation, but with nowhere to look.