Vagrant Stare

His desperation, so succinctly held within.
As if the feel of real must be a sin.
Christian still, the alleluias rang
within the withering of might have been.
Reaching north, the icy climbs of mind
became the only comfort known. Numbness
and the feel of death delighted times inside him
that had never felt the pain of heart and soul.

Sweating in the silence of a field
of sunburned grass. Wondering
where all the pleasure went.
Wishing for the best without
the feeling of the worst. Knowing
that the limits of his mindset had been
cursed. So long ago, the memories
had faded. Fearing truth as if the shores
of Hades would impinge upon the life
he thought he lived. Preferring only half
the shifts of his imagination. While deep
within the night, the great migration of the
light was filling him. Past the point of
overflowing. Growing ever stronger
in the realm of time that always passed
him by.

He tried to run away from past,
but found the future grinding into
every dream he'd tried to make
into an alternate reality. He lost
and gained another sense of speed
as age in time began to warp
the edges of his weary mind.
Defensive anger covered over
all his rage, still undiscovered
by an ego ever swelled by momentary
spells of dwindling ecstasy.

Imprisoned by the battle lore of men,
he'd always sworn he'd find success
within the blood of every massacre
recorded in unfeeling histories.
For he believed the married widows
ought to feel the overwhelming
sense of pain that lay within him.
And so he sent it out into eternity.
Surprised at how the interplay
so quickly brought it back to him.
Perhaps another game would prove
him right. Above and yet within
the powers of the endless nightmares
that he lived into the light of every day.

Counting out the hatred in the change
that he kept making all too real.
His moneylenders' heart turned ever blue.
Living on an interest that was never really
his to claim at all. Rising higher on the back
of every client that he managed to draw near.
Even as the ones he claimed to hold
so very dear were dissipating. Falling ever
further into chasms that he blasted
in his chosen repetitions. Rushing on,
the movement was his focus. Casualties
were laid to rest, to keep perspective fresh.
Perfection was an idiom. The winner
of each game the only one allowed to
intermesh in realms of great delight.

While deep within his dreams, an altered
image flared into his sleeping being.
As confusion struck his fortress into dust.
Awakening, he could not shake the feeling
of part ownership in death. His focus lost
amid the gross, unfriendly feel of this new
concentration. Moving through his veins.
Absorbed inside. While out there, at the edge
of every vision he'd maintained, an end
came to replace each new beginning.
And there he saw the glass again.
Half full and yet half empty, just the same.
How great, the range of strangers
that applauded him just then.

The child inside had tumbled o'er the rim.
His desperation, so succinctly held within.
As if the feel of real must be a sin.
His moment had come. Like the dawn
of the sun o'er the darkness. Or moonlight
sending reams of starlight into every dream.
He turned and walked away from the reality
he once had co-created. As his errant choice
of partners lived the hatred he had hidden there -
inside the growing silence of his ever vagrant stare...

? Michaelette ?

Copyright© 2004 Michaelette L. Romano
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