The soliloquy of self
serenades the funeral procession of my life.
Now it is time to bid our farewells.
Now we must craft some meaning from
This heap of dead dreams.
In the cocoon of my breast.
I see my face
The distortions of my own lens,
And through the glass of midnight-delusions
Every time I open my eyes.
Truth bares no hope.
It is the drunkard’s cold shower.
It is the undertaker
That carries your ashes
Off to the grave.
I gather myself within myself
And watch the world through a plexiglass of pleasantry
Longing to break through
Like an unborn cry in the lung.