All of these empty pages
08/19 2020
All of these empty pages
That somehow have flown past above
In tender affection the words are held
In moments like the one I have in mind
The actors, I should say, are well defined
Yet the intentions are too black
To differentiate from the night
There is, of course, the dancer:
To whatever comes her way,
Uncaring to the stakes
Against the backdrop of mistakes
There is the forlorn lover
Longing for the dancers embrace
There is also the soldier
Against the court of justice
Acting from the word of nature
To kill the world of nurture
There is the ladies talking about French
In English tea rooms.
Yet, somehow, late at night
As the clock's rhythm lay steady
The heart uneven against it,
The empty pages obstruct it,
Make the blood to the brain flow slower
Than I think it ever did before.
The ladies talking about French
In English tea rooms
Act all surprised at Frankenstein's monster
Who gives out his emotions in Iambic pentameter
None of them bothered to even look it up,
And at this point, does it even matter?
In easy evenings far gone,
In well received goodbyes,
In the actors bowing their heads
To the word of feathered pantomimes
Their blank pages on their faces
Grow obvious to the one above
Who sits all well-fed and broken
Without any mercy on his mind
And what else have they asked of it?
But flown alone, above departments
Compartmentalized affections, effects unknown
To the blank pages which I forgot
At least two lifetimes ago;
Have life, undoubtedly
Have an urge to die, obviously
But my act of destruction
Grows weak in the face of light
Of dimly lit full moon nights