rather see her dead
than living on without him there.
That was the only way
he knew to care.
She felt the weight
of all his dated promises
now sickened on the vine.
The roots had grown too dry.
The vine had withered.
Even as he slithered back
into her memories.
She knew she couldn't compromise
the dignity upheld through all
the swells of grief and thievery he sold.
He never really held her dear.
His patterns became very clear.
He lived for just himself, you see,
and left a trail of misery
within his every passing.
Terror-filled, he fled the real
of forces still invisible.
He did not want to feel
what he had wrought.
Running this way and then that.
Coming home, then going back
to anyplace where no one
knew him well. He couldn't tell
the past from future anymore.
Variations of relationships
became the swinging door
of nevermore. But not his fault.
And never his responsibility.
Adrift within a sea that flowed
back to the many cartoon shows
he'd watched when all the world
was given him. For him, the treasure
never became real. Thoughts flying
through an untamed mind.
Never learning to be kind.
Imagined in a mirror of make-believe.
Blinded by release of misconception.
Stuttering the uttered words.
Demeaning all their meaning.
It must have been those drugs he took
as day turned into evening.
A moron's mind meandering
through pictures in the dark.
Electrified by stark duality.
The seals were all cracking
and the walls were coming down.
How sad, the clown
that laughed his love away.
Tires slashed. The weather weary.
Falling into habits dreary.
Even high, he could not feel the thrill.
And everything was fading into jaded attitudes.
Endlessly, he rushed through yet another ugly mood.
Seeking comfort from the trials
built on all the great denials
that he lived...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2005 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .