In Search Of

Ideals. Impossibly evasive
in the drift of everyday.
Broken into pieces.
Lying shattered on the floor.
Waiting for a someone
that will sweep them under
yet another rug.

Open your mouth
and they cut out your tongue.
Even as they turn the vestal virgins
into whores. And nail shut
the once wide-open doors.
For fear has come to play
its games with them.
Sinking deep into the wells within.

Where cells of flesh
began to blossom
in a putrid scent.
If anyone dares notice,
it reminds them of
the aura of all death.
Ripped apart by vultures
as one bite turned into more.
Unwilling to reopen those closed doors.

Then look again.
But never find
the brightness of ideals
that unwind themselves
into another kind of misery.
As they feed upon the gross reality
of innocence that seeks
the other side of light and lust
in search of understanding...

? Michaelette ?

4/20/2005
Copyright© 2005 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .