Cold and Vaporous

Cold and vaporous, the breeze blows through
imprisoning all clarity behind a wall of glass,
where people hide as spirits glide right through;
and moisture waits, so patiently, to be let in.

A fog is forming, hauntingly,
without a thought or word;
yet whispering in taunting phrases,
longing to be part of life again.

As it listens to the silence of nostalgic voices
seeping out of focused lines of sight,
wondering aloud through memories
of how it used to be and all that might
still come to live itself eternally to life in form.

Memory swells out again
within their tattered minds,
tempering today with specious attitudes
of all that yesterday could never really be;
insisting that all happiness become some
worn-out sense of their proprietal reactions.

Yet their frowns betray it all somehow -
the jealousy and loneliness,
the anger lying unexpressed beneath
that unguent smile they place upon their face.
And they can’t explain the shakiness
they always seem to feel.

A sense of routine unfamiliarity
extrapolates the blankness in their eyes,
that dryly cry in dusty motes
where sparkling streams of light once shone,
but now a nervousness resides,
overriding streams of utter sensitivity.

They are touching close
yet never seem to reach
quite far enough to know each other well,
as if a spell of insanguinity once cast
refused to seep through pores
of masks they wore for oh so long.

They form and then reform again -
in truth, always the same -
yet gaining weight in great accord
with what they think as gravity;
as mass unconsciously expands itself
around, about and through
the many moods they never
quite have come to know at all.

For to feel is anathema to
the world that they have learned is true,
and they rail against the feel of their emotion;
thinking, ever thinking, as if thinking could contain
the very soul that brought their life to form;
as they seek, time and again, to tame
all that instinct names as natural.

Yet this truth that they believe
is made of factual mass that lacks
the creativity that life is based upon.
It's become the gross of a metallic mode
that speaks in tinny moods of gray and black,
while in the purity of white lies hiding
all the many hues that brighten life.

Skies reaching down to breathe themselves awake
yet still they take the tried and over-traveled road
where all they know is what life used to be;
as cold and vaporous, the breeze blows through
imprisoning a sense of clarity behind a wall of glass
where in a mass, they hide from the reality
of what they’re meant to be . . .

? Michaelette ?

1/31/2001
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .