Elegy

Consider the following a eulogy

for the poet who lived here before me.

I guess it wasn't meant to be,

for two worlds to thrive in harmony-

the vernal jades of fantasy,

and the concrete walls of veracity.

For a while, they held on. Barely.

Now that time is only a memory.

Recorded here, for prosperity,

in the form of a meager elegy.

***

Here we are, on the dawn of Spring,

and I can't find one damn thing

to rip out, kicking and screaming-

blood and bones and everything-

from this infected, gangrenous being.

Increasingly, I feel closer to conceding

than going on each day reliving

the unglamorous fate of a bonfire's kindling.

My thoughts no longer seek the sun

as I had quickly grown accustomed to.

These vibrant visions are far too few

to stop the strings from coming undone.

It's almost amusing that it's come to this-

after a lifetime spent locked inside,

my heart no longer wants to hide

within the confines of it's comfortable abyss.

But this stricken soul that yearns to share

is no more powerful than the air

that blows against these padded walls

with every syllable my lungs can call

and every letter my fingers scrawl.

My clouded mind doesn't seem to care,

indifferent to my desperate prayers;

it seems I've become my own thrall.

Maybe someday, I'll again find the words...

though I may not recognize them when they come.

In they'll soar, like a nestless bird,

seeking to share my scattered home.

But their precious song may go unheard

before they depart once more for the horizon.

Until then, I guess there's nothing more I can do

except hope, my muse, that we'll meet again, soon.

Author's Note

This feels like the end of an era. For so long, I was one thing... and as of writing this, I'm something else. By all rights, I've "been" that something else for a while now, but I think this piece may be what it finally took to bridge that gap mentally. Not necessarily acceptance, but... belief. That phrasing makes sense to me, but it wouldn't shock me if it didn't to anyone else. /shrug. I don't make a whole lot of sense lately.

Who knows, maybe SOMEONE will get something out of this... I don't know what to label it, other than what I already did. An elegy.

Reviews

[Nolo Segundo]

As with virtually all your work, this is top tier-- I'm continually amazed your poems don't get more attention. But then, Van Gogh couldn't sell a single painting, because he could see while everyone else was blind...