The Book

On page two-hundred and fifteen
I had finally had enough
I tore out the page
And cast it away
I did not want to read further
I did not want to know how it would end
I simply wanted to end it
From then on ‘til eternity

I glanced at the previous pages
Ripped out the few that were entertaining
Page twenty-three was my absolute favorite
But by page ninety-eight
The book had become an obvious work of imperfection

Some of the struggle was indeed interesting
But the struggle become too complicated
Too difficult
Uncomprehendible

The next day I found the old book
Here and there
Pages torn out
I took the thing and slammed it into the wall
The cover fell off

I burned the loose paper
In my backyard
I watched the pages
Turn to ashes
And slowly drift into the air

My only wish
Would have been this:
If I could have gotten rid of the book entirely
If I could destroy the ashes completely
No memory would cease to exist
And I would be happy

Haunted

No more rose petals
No more corsages
No bouquet of white lilies
With stems cascading towards the floor

No more sweet taste
That melts in the mouth
And flows towards the soul

No more smiles
Of adoration
Or of happiness
Lingering on

No more excitement
Built into the heart
From a sudden glance
Or a short discussion

Black is all that lingers
The cross
The veil
A secret into a society
No hope
No avail

Lost! The ship is tonight
Fallen! The airplane from the sky
Crashed! The star into the field
No flames
Only fumes

Goodbye man’s wish of utopia
A solemn song of the past
Goodbye the sweet scent of love
The ephemeral smell of happiness

Any hope in the past
Was a dream
Any ambition to persevere
Only a lie
The cage that ensnarl me
Nobody else can see

I am a caged bird
No one can see

One Single Rose

One single rose
Lies in the arable bed
Watching the litany
On the corner of Baker and Moorhead

Her zealous color
Of innocuous white
With replete pedals
Scintillating in the light

Interminable glances
To the surrounding air
Looking for a camaraderie
In anyone who’s near

Waiting for her beauty
To be noticed at last
Poor rose
Did not know the ubiquitous presence
Of nature’s wonder;
The flower’s sonnet

Keeping her equanimity
She gazes into the pedestrians’ eyes
No one knew
Of the frangible heart
She hid deeply inside

Waiting for a moratorium
In the walking feet
An interminable jungle
Of constant noise
Gazing at the passerbys
Dreaming with a sigh

Two days later
I found the rose
The vibrant pedals faded
The flower, somehow, desiccated

The fervent fire gone
The presence of a lugubrious bulb
Was all that could be found

If she could have communicated
It would have been obvious to me
She would have said her life was truncated
Because no one could see