It would be unwise to decipher the ache in his heart.
So much so that he truly believes
If he were to dig down into the depths
To recall the origin of that wretched,
unwelcome, drowning sensation,
He would no longer have the strength
To climb out of that pitch black hole.
That he may be forced along Dante’s path
With no guide nor God to lead him safely.
For within those depths he will plunge, and
The path of the absurd waits hungrily at the crossroad.
Fate is an unrelenting brute.
It’s never tempted by diversion
Or wise men with silver tongues
Forming hopeful hypotheses.
It’s simple though: Que sera, sera.
The young mother,
an abandoned lover,
has felt the cold steel
Of Fate’s unbiased blade
Gliding easily along her cheek
And perhaps the cackling clown
Sobs quietly in his room
After a standing ovation.
Remembering, all too well
Why his smile is simply a mask.
She has one of those rare enchanting smiles
One that captivates an entire room immediately
With a flash of teeth and blush in her cheek.
Without reprieve, her smile brings courage to the meek.
“If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things through narrow chinks in his cavern”
-Aldous Huxley
Do I recite the name in hopes it will bring back that old sensation
When hope was in the air, and just that word could reincarnate
Every bit of splendor that we shared?
No.
All that’s left is the smudge in hindsight
The blur that fights for recognition,
When I’d really prefer,
It stay no more, or no less, than a tiny, insignificant blur
He dreams about her far too often…
No matter the elixir he consumes.
Whether it be wine,
Or a dry martini,
A swig of codeine,
Or herbal remedies,
the reveries,
They never cease.
The Way it Goes 