The Part We Play

Wax and wane.
Weave again to rip to shreds.
Ebb-tide born of endless dreams,
that die upon a stage
where all our schemes
have risen just to fall again
into the quality
of our performance.

Feel, but not for real.
Instead, mere utterance
of hysterical inanities
that mean no more
than doors that have
been nailed open.

Empty words pour forth
to fill the room with moodiness
never needing any conversation
for the tone of one alone
has come to fill each empty
space and place with
this - your misery.

Hysterical, delusional,
an unfulfilling fantasy,
winding like a skein of thread
that only comes undone again
in endless loops
of all that's trivial.

Build a bridge
and see it shattered.
Liquify all matter.
Watch what matters most
run down the walls;
just as this inspiration
comes to call,
demanding its return
to realms where broken dreams
lie taut and tense,
seeking the enlightenment
that only soul can bring.

And yet a step - one step -
and all the walls
are left behindl;
as flying high,
we feel at last ourselves,
touching close
in realms divine
where time does not exist,
but only bliss can enter in.

While we trace our way
beyond the many mazes
that sit in stone-like masks
upon the faces all around,
where smiles never reach the eyes,
but only seek to taste the feel
of happiness made real
by someone else;
watch those tides
of broken dreams
come tumbling together
adhering and reforming,
somehow reborn of what
most never grasp at all.

For walls were never meant
to be a prison, but a home;
and entering and leaving
just a whisper on the wind,
where friends might find the time
to fall again into each other's arms,
embracing in a tenderness
that winds us
through the opposites
we used to live alone . . .

?Michaelette?

1/9/2001
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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