The Desolation of One Man
He has searched long for that love of all loves,
but it hastens not, although winter has come
and left him desolate of every hope of warmth,
comfort, and prospect of his name's immortality.
Nor will this elusive love reveal itself
in his tiny dreams, allowing, at the very
least, a gossamer of muted visions that
would elevate a worn and bitter man to
a level of expanded vistas, kindling
within the flame of love's illusion.
SINCE I DON'T HAVE YOU, I conjure up an image
that is, somehow, both real and ideal.
What I do recall is etched deeply, in dark and
labyrinthine caverns of my troubled mind.
The heart is a profound well of reminiscence
that draws up an intangible yet true past.
A newfound, tranquil corner in me reassures that
love, though gone missing, was never lost.
THE VALLEY OF THE BLUE MOON, a verdant and slightly concave sprawling hollow at the foot of the largest snow-capped rock I ever laid eyes on, is not home to me, nor ever shall it be. Had I entered Paradise under my own steam -- not kidnapped -- I daresay my impressions of the proverbial Utopia would be immeasurably more favorable.
Nonetheless, I long for the hustle, the bustle, the din of my dirty and lusty city by the bay, whose roots sink deep into the ancient mire of human folly and wanton avarice. What some men consider the deplorable state of fallen man and his consequent foray into all things bad is what titillates and nourishes my aching soul. I suck life in through every pore of my unhallowed flesh and am, to be sure, fed in such a manner that would unhinge the pure at heart.
I have neither desire nor need for a perfect state of affairs and a seeming comfort that coddles the body but eats the soul.
They ate his soul then they ate his heart
He hoped he wouldn't fall apart
But then the sun rose up one day
Inside his house along the Bay
Nancy Drew is a gem, and so, too, her fanciful spin offs on the all-too serious musings of a demented poet.