There was a time of sanity – revered
Like platitudes of a portentous priest,
But now you know it’s everything you feared
A daunting thought, but hopefully deceased.
In the beginning, each dawn arrived too late
Drowsily wandering upon the wings of sleep,
There was no luck, no argument on fate
Merely the texture of everything we slipped
Between the fingers of one marble hand,
Outlining life against the night’s abyssal sky
Pulling the shelf out of the no-man’s land,
Without the fear of ever asking why.
I’m missing now our forgery of truth
Soft marble hands carving the waste of time,
Our own design, cleverly meant to soothe
This ghastly play the other clowns call mime.
But in the end, our scenery just changed
And characters no longer seemed to fit,
I guess, this mime is always rearranged
Sometimes at once and others bit by bit.
The threadbare souls don’t clangor with the sway
Of mundane plays strangled by brittle looks,
They’ve got their present laid with bits of yesterday
And their bedridden shelves bestowed to phony crooks.
Yet they’d forgotten how the cripple lent a hand
To hold on to the life the lawless mind conceived,
Albeit born in pain, there’s always left a strand
To bring feet to the shore the darkened tide bereaved.
The haze of time now muffles our salutes
And etched emotions leave nothing more to show,
Bedraggled smiles are seeking no recruits
And mirrors close – bent black on letting go.
So you are set again to wager out your heart
Guess that the brimful sporran is naught to ye but time,
The killer’s lying there, cheeks flushed against the hearth
That crimson blush you love, covering up the crime.
And life…then wiggles back warming your frozen limbs
And cinnamon and scraps seem like a dread no more
A thought then dawns on you: “Is this the way of kings?”
“Aye, it is so dear lad!” and now you know for sure.
So heed the storm no more and just lay down your plaid,
For winter breathes like you, only behind the glass
Feel how the purpose shifts within the living clay
When molded in the hands of your sweet, bonny lass.
A callous mind weighs more than its ordeals,
Its wicker thoughts embedded in your truth
Pledged heedlessly the shelf to wry ideals
In hope of muffling the wailing of your ruth.
And now the crimson withers into black
And all the anger recedes to abnegation,
Mirrors stare still – your shelf is out of whack…
It seems that time has signed its resignation.
And who you are holds interest no more
For these concerns have lingered in – too much!
You’re just a leaf in the cold autumn squall
Seemingly dead but living to the touch.
So what’s amiss when alcoves steal your place?
While cheekbones draw still figures in the dark,
What is that burning if it is not your face?
And who’s that shouting if it is not your heart?
Absently gazing far across the maze
Perhaps you dozed then trickled back inside,
A tattered fool too eager to amaze…
Morose yet fledged but weary to reside,
Within…your sanity benights the univited
It’s not becoming now to quiver in its sight,
Who would’ve thought you’d never be delighted
However silent, the mirrors were alight.
Seen how the chaos echoes from a past
Sun-bled over the cracks upon your wall,
Time is a leg and you’re the broken cast
And now the world’s not leaping anymore.
So drag your rags down on the hall of shame
And purge the shelf to scrape the lining clean,
Take to the cripple – he’s got a better claim
He’ll lead you back to where the beggars preen.
Yet borrowed truths still lie without remorse
And tragedy is scarce among the white,
Don’t worry now, for sanity is worse!
And it’s a shame to cuddle in its blight.
Which one are you?
There’s no respite – your marble hands are fading
From always scraping down against my door
And all this time – incapable of trading,
A shriveled heart has crucified the poor.
Yet mirrors beg or steal, mostly the black and bleak
By shards or by a smile, worn as a charming gun,
For yesterdays of ember embroidered on a cheek
Make for a perfect rescue when all their light is gone.
Because the statues feed on splinters of the shelf
While walking down the sidewalk of their youth,
All disarrayed and tarnished, stumbling on their feet
Clumsily going through with this absurd pursuit.
But in the end the thief is never whole
Nor is the beggar presentable to meet,
Albeit poor, I’d take a trader’s bowl
Than fool around and feed upon deceit.