My bed is in the corner Of an empty room The irony is self imposed But not without reason I have heard that darkness Gathers more in the deep And perhaps it shall help me sleep Faster than dying by lying wide awake Counting seconds, falling and rising With time’s unreceding tide.
The curtain hanging by my bedside Often flutters in the night And it’s breath though purposeless Fills me with envy By it’s act of pure motion Sans a shred of emotion How can I be more than me When everything I seek I deny to see?
Dreams; they die, my own are no exception Even when I have them Caged behind a glass case Cuddled in red velvet Caressed by Mozart’s Sonatas The flowers shall wilt, roots die and fruits decay Nature by nature of unrequitance Shall swallow none but one’s own For birds do not nest on trees unsown And those that I watch from the moonlit window They shimmer and shine Like gold and wine Broken; yes and crooked and white But they know unlike me the taste of sunlight.
The tommorow lingers far, Like light from another star, And there is mist, With eyes in the middle, That speaks with tears, Of smoke and tar.
I talk not of human, And their negligible nuisance of narcissistic necessity, Nor of the world with it’s viscous veracity, I speak of nectar, world of gods, Poets and paramours, artists and art, Of the innumerable sand, Dreaming upon the beach, And those stars falling every night, Who never truly reach.
I speak of the brilliant acting dumb, The sensitive roughened numb, Blind men holding hands, Children without a stand, And oasis with scarlet seas, Gold honey, dead bees.
I invoke the untamed, I call the wild, Into this land of frozen blood, Where once were sowed diamonds, Now remains but dried mud.
I know, my voice is hoarse, And these sharp words are truly coarse, For I too am of your kind, The omniscient God without a mind.