As If

It is as if you are possessed
by something other than yourself
within these spans of time,
when all seems lost and bleak.
And still, the demon speaks
in words you canít quite comprehend.
Not yet, but soon,
this reality of all that is
will bring the power
of the moon to bear
within her cyclic spin.

when quite suddenly,
again you turn into
the alien you always swore
youíd never, ever be.
While in the mirror, you see
no more than just a mere reflection
of your suffering face,
unrecognizable within this core
of time and space unraveling all around.

And the reality of evil creeps
so swiftly all around the edges,
seeping deep into your world -
the one you thought you knew so well -
even as your pores are opening out,
refusing to deny again
the wrath that dwells inside.

Just as suddenly, you realize
this propensity has always lived inside of you.
(What will you do with this new piece of truth...?)
Yet now, completely unconcealed,
the many pieces of the puzzle
start to fall into an order
never known to you to be before.

Secretly, you choose
to wrap yourself in mysteries -
a mystery incomprehensible to other beings.
As secretly again, you try to keep
this rage of ages from exploding
in the here and now, no matter
For you know of all the harm
that this might bring.

Instead you laugh and sing,
pretending everythingís all right,
while just beyond all mortal sight,
the devil gathers power
from each instance
of your untold misery.

While daily, in each moment,
these surreal experiences insist
that they unfold, and here and now,
the pressure rises undisguised -
from your bulwark of excuses,
that in the past would always blast
this evil into distant space,
somewhere outside yourself -
where responsibility and consequences
reek their havoc without touching you.

Yet this return of yours is written
by the hands of fate itself -
for atrocity lives on -
a sequel that sustains its opposite;
sought always in the good and kind
that knew of love, yet claimed instead
the attitudes that lead to fame;
that live within a withering belief
as no more than faces
of a death that never really
had to be at all.

Again and again, this inimitable need,
overwhelms the right and good and true
that love would speak;
within in a past that used to keep
you moving on into another day.
While you, so close to that one point,
that lies beyond all resurrection,
refuse again the love that might redeem
your soul from the extremes of right and wrong.

But you believe that no one must suspect
the cruelty that lies inside
the very child you were once were.
And yet, the cruelty exposed
within the vision of this one reality
still speaks its way into your very life
within your chosen attitudes.

The point of no return has come,
and you feel that you must
face these demons down
without an inclination of the reaches
or the darkness of deep.
And suddenly, you start to sink
into the depths of all you
used to think you knew.

Oh, exorcist of catatonia,
please let the demons feed
upon your life and soul,
for without them, you can be no more
than just a useless lump of clay
that plays with gross extremities;
and never comes to find
the center and the balance of it all.

Do you believe then,
in illusions of such pain...?
The moon turns red again.
"Oh dread, I beg you,
please leave me now."
And this becomes the only call
the only words that you can form
within your state of altered consciousness.

Denial of the dark side of reality.
So steep, the price we pay
for some beliefs...
and I sit here wishing nothing more
than an end to all the torments
you keep bringing here to me.

While still you frame
your unlived promises
of utter beauty found in love,
within a vision that can never come to be.
For the beauty of illusion cannot live
without a long and lasting attitude
that promises the moon and stars,
and then becomes the energy
that makes these dreams come true.

I love, yet all that I receive now
in return, is misery and loneliness -
for you have traveled to your past again.
And I find the tide reverses yet again.

Oh friend and foe
of all thatís meant to be,
if only you would tell me what
it was that you still want from me.
But instead a silence, deep and telling,
brings the roots of all insanity
to haunt me here.

The gift, the grace,
the power of disgrace -
such are the weapons that you wield.
And somehow I must find a way
to remove myself from all this power
of your misery...

? Michaelette ?

3/10/2001
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...