The Murder of Love's Need

Unsettling, the way your friends no longer wish to play.
Change your mind, and ring the bell again.
But now, the change no longer is your friend.
No answer then - the garden gate
is closed and locked and chained.

It seems as if you're followed by the gray.
Great gloomy clouds that always move your way.
Beneath the sunshine, stole the cloud, spreading discontent.
Its darkest aspect sinister - as if it meant to bleed
instead of seed the earth with passing tears of loving nurturance.

Shadows fell, the day became a living dusk of endless rain.
Alive and suffering, within the shadow that they cast.
Role-playing of prosperity that can't be known in trouble's aftermath.
Sweating out and breathing in the feel and scent of pouring rain.
They lived within a great depressive attitude of wrong -
claiming right was all that they could be.
War was raged - the murdering of all their loving ways.

They fought the gravity of center-point.
Denied the healing of stiffened joints.
Not quite alive, they still refused to die.
Pain became an anguished battle cry.
Hanging on and never knowing why.
Phony, fake - they lived within a cage.
Self-built, of all the fear within their age.
Denying diminution as their death swept them away.
Fear the only image in their aging interplay.

No wisdom found to ease the round
of early dawns to setting suns.
No room allowed for meaning's contemplation.
No love that would abound within a flow of honesty.
The feeling in their hearts become no more
than all the lies and alibis group living brings.
They feed upon the youth in their denial.
Resisting every urge to go to trial.
Still the day was coming due, when all
that they had wrought would have to
weigh itself against the ultimate.

Sleepless nights and over-busy days.
Painted masks of smiles upon the stage
of powered will defeating destiny.
Running from the call of meant to be.
Popping pills and getting high -
sometimes prescribed, and still,
the demons dive to depths unknown.
Running all their lives - from what...?
Contained continuance of womb to tomb.
Powered by a sexual appeal.
They never really lived their time as real.

Guilt born of all their padded memories.
Saints and martyrs waiting to appease
all the honed, divided gods
created in the mind as human deity.
Never daring yet to reach for that
one source of all reality - within.
Judge and jury, executioner.
Self-created guillotines, where only
separated heads live on within
the moving pictures' blur.
Spark of flint, the flame of soul.
Heat to make the parts a whole.

Inquisitioned agonies before the final knell.
Processions of insanity, the echoes of the bells.
Battle, strife, the end of life.
It's all that they would know.
Dawn to dusk to nightmare's flare,
pretending that they cared.

Narcissists of primal quality.
Instinctual, the menstruating bleed.
Casting off the mighty flow
of all they never wished to know.
Menopause - a matter of degrees.
Change of life abounding in the breeze.
Aging gendered opposites
and clinging to extremes.

It's all that they would leave their dying breed -
misunderstanding born of greedy deeds.
No loving nights of candlelight.
Instead, a glare - electric fright.
Racing engines, much like masturbation.
Hurry on into a late elation.
Another feel of momentary, mental ecstasy.
Nil - the lasting feel of loving hearts.
Run another program, play
the same old games of masquerade.
Douse the leaping sparks of creativity.

Rats racing through an endless labyrinth.
Pretend away the abyss of their preformed ambiguity.
One misstep and watch them fall
into the pit of all that they denied.
Never really living, choose to die.
Clinging to the hope of heaven
lying on the other side.
How is it that they never came to know
the beauty of the earth and sunshine's glow?

Sleek and trim, like baying greyhounds -
harnessed, racing round and round
the same old track again.
No elation there, within the win.
Caged, yet traveling in packs.
Avoiding all the joys of solitude.
Reacting in an ever-changing mood.
Blaming full of moon for all they feel.
Exaggerating every deed.
Denying all their deepest needs.

Human nature, vivisected.
Lost and lonely, moving on and on.
Even in the middle of the mob.
Money doesn't matter here.
Fame will never make it clear.
Power lost among the throng
of angry, whining voices.
Polluted water cannot clear
the detritus away.

Faking love, they came to hate it all.
It mattered not, the mighty or the small.
Running still, their death advanced.
Religiously worn-out beliefs
failed to define the steps
of altered consciousness.

They never knew, they never knew.
The choice, the will, the daring do.
Falling up, they could not claim
an ounce of understanding as their own.
Normal deemed the uncreative
attitudes of moving clones.

Years of living death before the deed.
Unsettling, the way your friends
no longer wish to play.
You beat them all and all that's left
is just one more heart-stopping wrench -
invective, and the murder of love's need...

6/10/2002
Copyright© 2002 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .