Inheriting Eden

I come to my senses a little every day, to lose myself with the morning. I have no country and know no flag My morality, in body bags lies at the foot of the stairs, under the sputtering oil lamp my grandfather first lit in infancy. A tiger moth flutters, Beats its wings as it beats its forehead Hot glass, burning flame, searing light Gloomy foot steps echoing down the corridor Half closed doors, half open windows Half told lies, half buried truths As the wind blows through A song of echoes, a hiss of regret The rain, the rain Cleanses all, changes all Seasons. Autumn comes, the brown fog of a reluctant morning in the wake of recalcitrant night under the jibes of the moon the scorn of the sun taunting. Haunting, everything so haunting So tauntingly inviting So indifferent to anything relevant Relevant but distant Distant and transient Everything real but not real enough Like a dream that is not a dream But a misted reality Under the brown fog of morning. My heart is a red rock My soul is waste My mind, bridging the Styx A paradox of simple complexity Bridging worlds inside worlds, rooms without windows, doors without walls, fields of scarecrows to scare away fertility 'Mother, oh mother why have you forsaken me?' Is this it? My legacy, my Eden? A field of burgeoning mushrooms A grove of wilting vine Mine, mine, mine, A horror, a nightmare, But mine. Carlos