A Tragic Scene

Fingers Horizontal stalagmites In the oblivion of other anxieties Beneath the celophane Skin tight as string Drawn over sharp edges of bone No music left in that old trombone Blown by too many Self inflicted winds. Intestines shortened To match the memory Of lurid days Digest the delicate lies Of flour and sugar By some fancy name disguised. Watch that figure Quite appropriate for the age The recurring problem Is the constant sagging of the skin Masacara and a few pearls Can deflect the eyes Wondering towards the shrill sharp of voice Contentless of childhood tones. What is left here Is the final theatre of tragedy The body is the onle free stage Of time's immense weight The heart's last sorrow tell Against the actor's unbroken spell There is no interlude Once the curtain is raised by earth. Eyes Clouded by their thickening lens Move closer to see Was the tragedy in our birth Or our passage Back to the hollow earth? For I know Death is too late for us It is the cul-de-sac Kind to the rubble of pride And the emaciating slide To a sack of detritus.