there is no fire
in the lavender skies of February
it is as if all that exists
with warmth, light and desire
has fled to the future
in the lavender skies of February
it is as if all that exists
with warmth, light and desire
has fled to the future
it is here that the white swans muse and ponder
slowly stirring in hapless meanderings
through a stoic sluggish pond
it is here
that I find myself coming to belong
nestled in the cold casket of a wind-still winter
where spring does not reveal its flowery face
for the air is soiled, stagnant and sour
where gray gives my soul a vapid and sullen vacuity
the canvas imbues a mossy green
to the artist’s stroke of incessant gray
its somber drizzling mists
keep falling on my weary pall
lingering here I have imprisoned hope
somewhere in the dire fog
this catatonia speaks tones of wretched gloom
that paralyze with foreboding dullness
exhuming imparting ghosts that loom and beckon
to follow with unfeeling discovery
to follow with unfeeling discovery
I tread bent and worn in this stagnant wasteland
seeking a sojourn with deathly swans
ascribing to a touchstone of insensible beauty
envisioned through a joyless malaise
I am empirically lost in the deathlike shroud
masked in the nakedness of my thoughts
drawn to a rampart of impenetrable apathy
hiding myself
in the miasma of passionless pain
