Life is a short play…
***
For ninety-six seasons a ghostly promenade,
how much salience is penned on this page?
For the rest, until my prompt death,
the story is but a candlelit stage.
***
I am ill, I always have been…
***
How subtle is this bearing of my sight.
A sound mind calls for daylight’s song.
Yet you shall turn mad if you stay for long.
I keep my comport with my hysterical cry.
Fryderyk’s ballades bring me half a moon;
velvet curtains in belladonna dye.
I stood before my nightshade friends.
this wistful air fondles my fantastical lie.
So my dear friend, stay for a little,
for our tales will by this land belittled.
For all those years are but an evening’s play;
there is no meaning nor a riddle.
Unless,
your torment outgrew your weary soul.
