Upon a time, once, long ago,
the darkness was in full control,
a memory so faint aglow,
when into pieces burst my soul.

What happened then in my existence
that night, so dark and black like now,
can’t feel the pain, sense its persistence.
a pressure, could not counter, how?

Wide about flew every flake
to stars so far away from Earth,
here are my joys and loves awake,
a distant galaxy gave worth.

Around my fractured soul I built
myself a small protective wall
with binder smooth of shame and guilt,
a perfect fixture for it all.

Instead of everything to bear
I learned to be the one who knows,
I heard when souls cried in despair
interpreted their inner woes.

It went so well and just in dreams
I sensed my spirit true and right,
the only place where thinking streams
and light and darkness take their flight.

But now the old wall is a-crumbling
and in my armour is a hole,
resentment, sorrows, hurt come tumbling
in this the dark night of my soul.

Oh soul flakes, please return to me,
give me my real joy and pain,
and let me in my freedom see
my proper self, now once again.

The Outermost of Seats
A little step toward my own centre
has taken me quite far from my old crowd,
once hidden, now I’m a dissenter
for breaking up the covenant so proud.

It is as if I’m sitting
on the outermost of seats,
just being here I’m splitting
up what everyone agrees,
and if I try explaining
what this really is about,
my group has gone complaining
and I’m left here full of doubt.

They wonder if I’m not a bit of a bother
you used to be so wonderful and fun,
hey have a drink, let’s party with each other,
but listen, no more talk, or we are done.

It is as if I’m sitting
on the outermost of seats
exhausted in my fitting
in to other people’s needs,
but I nurture my own vision
and I trust what I do now
in this difficult transition,
even though I don’t know how.

I give myself a leave of absence
while like the snake I change my skin,
now wish me luck, I feel I’m past tense
scared, uncertain if I’ll ever win.

But even if I’m sitting
on the outermost of seats,
no question that I’m quitting
let us see where this path leads,
and I have earned my seat
I passed my own lifetime exam,
the challenges that I did meet
by being true to who I am.

Hate Song
I hate everything in cosmos,
OK good, the truth is plain,
if I’ve ever come across
you or if not, feel my disdain.

Especially I hate relations,
old friends, family I curse
with their know-so-well sensations
stay away, you make it worse.

Close encounters, I detest you,
all those folks that seem to care,
men and women and the rest who
I have met today, beware.

Solo singers, don’t come closer
stay away, you choir birds,
worst of all is the composer
who writes music to my words.

I loathe everyone who died and
also kids who are not yet born,
people who will lend a guide hand
and are kind, I do so scorn.

In particular I hate it,
when my heart forgets its pain,
like the fool who so long waited
just to love a bit again.

The Scratched Record
When I tired go to sleep
there is a record playing,
the tune is old, the rhythm deep,
the sentiments are weighing.
it sings about my poor old life
and each wound, all my worries,
the scratches turning like a knife
repeat the saddest stories.

At daytime things are pretty good
I carry on un-psyched,
I laugh and cry here in my hood,
I do my stuff, I like it.
But then when night is coming close
and I am halfway dreaming,
the record raw and bitter goes
and sorrows just keep streaming.

And buried in my ears the phone
is playing songs of sadness,
a riff continuously is thrown
it’s getting close to madness.
And suddenly it hits a scratch,
the action is reversed,
the ditties once again dispatch
and I feel truly cursed.

And also when I’m waking up
some remnants still are playing
advising me to call a stop
abandon all, it’s saying,
but when my mind again is clear,
I remember my devotion
those that are in life most dear,
were night shadows of emotion.

As time goes by, I’ve learned so well
I am a wounded fighter,
occasionally I go to Hell,
but coming back gets lighter.
That record can be stored away
and wounds get disinfected,
my lips are hot, my smile is gay,
as I know you suspected.

Solstice
Sun is shining, birds are singing
once again the flowers bloom,
the wheel of life it keeps on swinging
kids are playing, gone the gloom.

Your own wheel is also turning
you are blooming fresh anew,
done the screaming, done the yearning,
let’s see what’s in store for you.

All was lost, but nothing lacking,
inner compass never scared,
heart was broken, soul was cracking,
surgery at home repaired.

From ideas plans were drafted,
so much beauty you designed,
think of all the things you crafted,
when you left your woes behind.

Watch the man, get a bit tougher,
wait a bit before you jump,
playing hearts is not on offer
if spades are his only trump.

And the best card you are handed
is your solidarity
with yourself, then peace is granted,
that is quite a rarity!

Mads Elung-Jensen 20 June 2025