april 1994
Rain, one of the few lingering solaces to the
bleak loneliness residing in my desolate limbo,
supplely seeps through the mesh of my silky hair
and prickles the tough skin of my coarse hands.
Roses, obscurely faded and dryly withered,
shrivel into a fine dust and chaoticly blow away upon
the heartless whims of harsh winds and aching sorrows;
nevermore to dispense of their virginal redolence.
Melodies, once relished for their dulcet cadence,
now appear as sympathetic ballads which share
peculiar witnesses to erotic love and bitter heartache;
somehow, they touch the inner sanctums of my soul.
Sleep, always and forever, a classical escape,
only imprisons my phantasmic fantasies and
unwillingly metamorphoses my unconscience reality
into uncensored expressions of my innermost desires.
Antiques, stashed away for their ancient obsolesence,
valued only by the love found in the eye of the beholder;
cracked vases and broken bookcases clutch the few
remaining treasures to which I cherished most dearly.
Cursed, by the very things to which appeals and attracts
the ways of an arduous life and an unforgiving society;
only to vainly suffer the remnant of mortal existence in a state
of neutrality between rivaling extremes found in creation.
d. e. storey