Dark night 6 March 67

For once those words refuse to come

How easy when those words were lies

Are they still?

Then why donít they come?

Numb. Quiet. Stupid.

Like a dirty floor

Trampled down Iíve lost

The will to shine.

Yet still a Persian carpet
Haunts me.

Luxury is not worth one tear.

The tear that knows not

How to fall, softly.

The eyes glaze

Fingers lose their touch.

My heart is drawing down

Into the pit of my soul.

Soon both will go

Leaving a carcass alone.

Sparkle - is a word

With seven letters.

Happiness is a myth

Founded on drunken hysteria.

Love too is a lie

Fabricated and destroyed

by poets, painters, actors.

Art the pseudo-science

- the one big lie

the worse for betraying

the truth it claims to seek.

Truth is an impossibility

in a world of liars.

Beauty is a name

used by poets and painters.

This is not poetry

And yet - a lie

All is lies

Life itself is a lie

pretending that

itís conquered death.

 

And what is life

But an instant

from eternal death?

How I long to live

I want to share my breath

Each special smell

Each precious scene

Of every waking hour

I want to share the stars

There are too many for me alone

The fragrance of a warm night

Keen biting frosty smells

And mellow wood smoke

All are kin in my past.

My future has no kin

but you.

Will you go too?

Like the morning dew

Into the blue mountains.

Or will you stay to share my day?

Please do.