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Poem

Part I.

In the heartland of that place called home
A figure sits alone in an empty chamber where 
Cracked walls, like squinting wrinkles,
Hide silent hesitations of untold sorrows. 
This is not a holy place, 
Nor a room of peace nor prayer nor solitude-
An infinite stream of broken faces flash with eyes 
Glaring on the bare walls,
A theatre of hell for a lonely stranger, 
To contemplate crimes committed
Or those omitted
By the dirty hands of painter friends 
Whose graffiti grows like prison ivy. 
A red-eyed 
Master of ceremonies, 
Hidden someplace in the cracks,
Gleefully smacks with satisfaction 
As the Munchian dreams stare 
Into the hollow air, over and over,
Screaming in all their variation the subtle 
Deceptions the facades of men wear.
This temple, whose gods long since fled into the shades,
Receives now only wordless souls,
Worldless men, whose being
Nobody knows nor sees nor cares
To see or know,
For they offer only better visions 
Of one-eyed ghosts wandering by dark night
Searching for the one golden candle 
Whose glow
Will flame the hope of light and set things right again.

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