A Pale Image of A New Life

Teresa of Ávila Dreamt the passion of God. A physical fire Burned an image of his power. An image I envisioned was one so dull Full of pain A nightmare stabbing my mind's eye. A frail image of my mother Some quivering voice I remember In my dimension of inception That my mother was at her end. A disruptive anxiety burdens my peace But that day, it was at bay. Paralysed by a hidden sight that I couldn't bear Petrified by a dream I will not admit as real. This despicable numbness I endure Sympathises the fools of fiction. As reality shapes its needle To fill with its anaesthesia of truth And inject into those who walk in wonder. Today, I trudged through that trail Of some twenty-fourth year My Lucky Strike ablaze And my hands on the balcony window. Experiencing no sore throat That I remembered from youth, Only a deep sensation of numbed limbs Suffering this cold spring night. Even the cigarette wasn't fazed Of the wind’s devouring passion Of its burning ashes.