LOST...
Like the salt that sprays from the sea,
and the sand that blows from my palm,
My life is wasted,
My time is spent.
The moon no longer holds any
romance for me,
nor does it hold the answers
that I had searched out for so long.
The stars no longer seem to remind
me of faces or places - long gone.
The gulls don't appear to be the flown
youth I had thought.
The waters and land and sky are
unsympathetic, no more are they lashing out
at me, apathetic.
I don't reach out for the one who will
never come.
I don't remember,
I don't Dream,
I don't weep.
Cursed with life,
this child of Entropy stands firm on
the shore.
There remains one thing within my
rigid body keeping me thus,
Knowledge.
The Philosophy of Pain plagues
me as I wait for the end.
And I mourn for the lost soul of humanity,
My lost soul,
My humanity.
The night begins as the sun sets and the light
retreats like a frightened child.
The darkness glides in like water,
clothing me in starry ecstasy.
I go on with my mindless duties
with thoughts of a crystalline Eternity
freezing my mind and burning in my veins.
A Thunderbird flies by
dragging its vapor tapestries,
and the clouds - in monster forms -
snap and snarl and engulf the moon.
The clock bangs a rusty chime as
the first signs of morning burn through
the sky while the night gives in to
her restless child.
Life begins to manifest
as I (with longings for my bed and
thoughts of you) wait for the light
like a new birth...
The snow was melting,
and my pain was subtle.
Foolish designs danced in my head,
and for a moment,
I believed that the script of tragedy
had ended...
... but a new act had begun.
I said my goodbyes and moved on,
still I couldn't escape the price...
... and I have paid it in anguish.
The bonds with friends we'll never
know are strong, as I'll never know
the reasons for her suicide solution.
Enemies have gone,
and friends have left,
even a lover can find another.
Though the fire in me flickers like the
candle of Life,
it is as alone as I am,
in its darkness and I in mine.
The day of Love comes soon,
and we are still alone,
desolate, desperate.
We grasp for hands that dare not
come near.
It is a homesick season.
But, like the Mariner of old,
I must tell my tale until the end of time,
and my story isn't over,
So tell on poor player,
for my job is not yet done!
 |
|
