Short of Breath

And so the days go on, still on the run.
Short of breath, he missed the depth
that sanctified it all. Computer games
and pills to tame the awful demon spells.

The place he dwelled, it seemed so distant
from him now. He wondered why he ever
chose to go back there again. The ruts
were huge, the view but minimal.

Patterns of the habits that he lived.
He used to take the time to really give.
Older now, his great excuse, was
nothing much but just a feeling
that complained of emptiness.

And yet his life was overflowing
with the refuse of his past.
Few, the moments left to him
that sparkled in a blast of cool,
clear air within a crystalline and
awesome view of light.

It used to burn so bright, behind his eyes.
But he could not quite remember that one
feel that spoke of wise. For all he lived
was just an imitation - of life lived
in the used to be - that couldn't ever
really be again.

There seemed to be no future left for him.
Not that he would ever choose to live it anymore.
Not now that love had passed away from him.
And he knew that he had chosen. Her words
(too true) still echoed out within his heart nonstop.
(The Stratford wives had broken free, but now
the husbands suffered from their cloning of it all.)

The large and small no longer showed him any
variation. The zeroes were just zeroes after all.
It didn't seem to matter where they lay.
The decimal point seemed like a joint
placed within the whirl and the sway
of all the roles he'd chosen once again to play.

There was a time that he'd felt so alive.
Feelings streamed into a running river
of pure love. Sure and free, and ever
moving on. He never would admit
the spell that kept him running from
the great desire in him that needed
to be filled.

And yet he knew it all too well, that spell.
For it came and went at his command,
no matter that he blamed it on an other.
Etched into his brain just like the ash
of burnt out offerings, but still he chose
to mever let it go. No matter that
he'd come to know much more
of love than when the spell was born.

And so the days go on, still on the run.
Heartbeat altered, pressure rising.
Complaining that the air he breathed
was never quite enough. Blaming
all the others once again, for the
pollution of the heart and soul -
and all the pain he ever chose to live...

? Michaelette ?

Copyright© 2002 MLR Enterprises
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .