Unalive

Unalive I am unalive. I am not dead but neither do I live: I exist in black & white, which are uncolors (mixed together they make gray). Sight, sound, movement & sensation are mere mechanics by themselves . . . love lends life joy & enjoyment. I’ve seen music dance with emotion; I’ve heard colors sing in chorus & shadow wooing light. . . your visage whispers into focus, appearing in the past tense. Nostalgia recalls better days; intimate, poignant nights . . . ah, those fragrant, sensuous nights! Your eyes bristle with reproach & damn me with disdain. I am reconciled to remorse. I am unalive. The saline of sorrow surges to my stubbled, haggard face; dissipation gnaws neglected flesh & the stench of stagnation pervades this vacant room . . . where once the color of laughter rippled like a rainbow; where now the funereal silence of solitude enshrouds me in its pall & my body is the heart’s tomb.