clouds hanging down into my head.
A rather simple wish that I were dead.
Worry though, that even that, would not
absolve me from attack. It seems
my mother died in vain. Now all
that comes my way is endless rain.
Remembering how clearly all the pain
would write itself across her face.
Looking for the grace to just go on.
Utter reason plays a spartan tune.
They wonder why the flowers
will not bloom without the moon.
As they hide beneath the covers of their beds.
Their brains are fried. They battle on.
They never see the dawning sun
of light that plays fantastically
upon their withered skin.
The joy was maimed within the many
games of blame they played.
Bombs rocketing, one-pointed,
to a destiny they never earned.
I sit and watch the fire burn away
to many little lives were lost, once made
to sing sweet songs. And then there's this.
I know they're wrong.
And yet my blame would only throw
another shadow deep into the well
of all their unforgiving attitudes.
I have my moods.
At times I'd like to lash out at them all.
Secretly, the way they did to me.
Hiding in the underground, while
tracking all their prey. Doors locked
as if their sacristy might somehow fly away.
Their electricity is wired wrong.
Tired out from all the power
that they always claim to own.
Oh nether home within the mist, be mine.
Away from all their reasoned bits of sanity.
Absolved from all their great hypocrisy.
I understand. Don't think I can't.
Caught up in a surging mass they call society.
Calculating loss and gain.
Projecting all their pain to someone else.
While every plan they make unhinges me.
I cry out loud. And then I fall
back into the dark clouds
that keep hanging in my head.
Afraid to even wish that I were dead...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2005 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .