There was something about this place--
so terribly unknown,
and though I fancied its mystery
I felt so alone,
an old abandoned dock, a shady-- house on a hill--
the same wardrobe of twill, in this city of stone.
All the years, misplaced and dreary--
I notice the gnat,
fluttering neath the window pane;
it's wings timid and flat,
how lucky that creature would-- someday be--
so determined and free, a silencing splat.
Lovely, I thought, this quiet scene--
my flattened friend,
two legs still manoeuvring aimlessly,
the others embrace the end--
how simple and fragile--a finespun dust--
yet you I trust, but will not defend.
Four glass panels, light passing through--
a heavenly invite,
your ticket stamped for an eternity,
why continue on to fight?
why attempt to scramble--around and about--
for a God without, not an angel in sight.
I am your vigil, your watching eye--
I will, stand here and watch you die,
I count the minutes--till sweet release--
the sign from whom shall grant you peace,
yet no soul beckons, or heeds the call--
no one my friend, no one at all.
Copyright © Marcello Colasurdo