This is a conscious observation. People are leaving. In numbers more than ever. They escape from my life into oblivion, merging into the faceless streams of the daylife. They leave, without leaving trace. The disappointment has thrust itself into consciousness, and now it sits as the elephant in the room. No, it isn’t a heartache. This heart never vied for so much attention. But the elephant is wrung out into a vague numbness: not the maudlin tragic but a blighted despondence nonetheless. Not lonely – for somehow I have adapted – but a poignant reflection, a emotion of distance, which ponders upon questions – why promises were made and forgotten. Was a love, a companionship ever there. Were things rounding back to the same days again, when you had no one to tell them that you loved them, and no one to tell you. There are few answers set in stone. They are printed and effaced with the ebb and flow of these musings. So, people are leaving. There is no motivation to call out most of them. There are attempts, oft repeated, to confront the remaining few. All in all, there is no purpose in this soliloquy. A deep breath, a sigh, spells the end of it.
What do you have
to say to me?
Don’t you sigh
when you look across
these barren conversations
which wither everytime I look at them
Do you see them?
Do you think of them,
with their stops and empty silences?
Have you nothing to say to me?
Even silence will do, if it speaks.
She was, behold ye, life itself!
Her enchanting eyes, were mesmerizing
as they looked at a random nothing
But when they did look at you
which they didn’t
you knew, oh you knew
beneath the veneer
what distance lay
how unattainable we both were.
I keep longing for the silence
the unspeakable tension in the eyes
The words almost at the lips:
a glottal push away from parting
The sidelong glances, the warm embraces
Dialogue without a word spoken
These, oh these emotions
would certainly be lost
What I’d not give today
to melt into the rain
and disappear away
And if the sun shone today
would it not hurt your eyes?
we love the rain too much
o dear, my dear
damp gray blotches of shapes
clouds journeying the sky
and the streets
now a darker shade wet
we love the scenery
love the days too much
they couldn’t be better -
could there be a way out?
A rainy night’s chorus in unison
against a damp, violet background
descends upon my roofs in precision
like an orchestra of sordid tales
and unsaid words, in musical derision
not in resonance with the rocking chair
the beat goes on in a mocking jeer
but music also the thunder makes
these three frequencies interfere
and interfere, to an uneven leer
upon the man in regret of his deeds.