A Sojourn With Deathly Swans
there is no fire in the lavender skies of February
it is as if all that exists with warmth, light and desire
has fled to the future
it is here that the white swans muse and ponder
slowly stirring in hapless meanderings
through a stoic sluggish pond
it is here that I find myself coming to belong
nestled in the cold casket of a wind still winter
spring has shown its face with flowers
soiled, stagnant and sour
nature cultivates somber green to justify the incessant gray
the mossy sludge of rains fallen in my desolate pall
where there are no colors in my empty heart
for I have imprisoned hope and lost the key
somewhere in the dire fog
this catatonia speaks tones of wretched gloom
that paralyzes with foreboding dullness
its ghastly numbness buries the ghosts that haunt
for gray gives my soul a vapid and sullen vacuity
I tread bent and worn in this wasteland
seeking a sojourn with deathly swans
I am empirically lost in the shroud of shielded gray skies
hiding myself in the mists of passionless pain
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