Embalmed

The crisis is over.
The changes embalmed.
We're left in an extraordinary calm.
Incessantly, another urge is building.
To move the world toward our constant yearning.
Like static electricity that hides within a rug.
No matter how we wither, life goes on.
Wet to dry and back again.
Cycles in consistent fluctuation.
No matter how we try to change ourselves,
still, constantly, we miss them.
We eat to soothe the hunger
that has grown too deep inside.
As we watch the weary world
pass us by. While a tear begins
to slither from the corner of an eye.

...for the touch of a butterfly...
Sing me sweetly back to sleep
that I no longer weep for what is not.
The air upon my cheek becomes
a lover's soft caress. In tune,
I find the peace of mind to care.
Remembering the dance that we once dared.
When every thought of you grew wings and flew.
Invisibly, our hearts were beating true.

When was it that it all turned into pain...?
We took the pain within the gain, but
somehow lost the love of heaven's reign.
The dance became macabre once again.
One alone. And lonely too. Forced solitude
does not present a friendly atmosphere.
No matter how we try to wrap our minds
around a vision, not quite clear.
It's not the same. These silent moments
are not tame. They howl in our heads
and fill our beings full of dread.
The butterfly becomes an iron grip
within our heads.

The crisis is over.
The changes embalmed.
We're left in an extraordinary calm.
Incessantly, another urge is building.
To move the world toward our constant yearning.
Like static electricity that hides within a rug.
No matter how we wither, life goes on...

? Michaelette ?

2/25/2005
Copyright© 2005 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .