Reverie
In the throes of madness,
Some have said acuteness of the senses is a level no man can know unless he himself is mad
A return to instinct allows the senses to guide you through the work that's to be done
A heart broken--- knows how to guide a blade quickly across the wrist
or anothers throat
You sing a 'melodious plot' with "full-throated ease"
but a refrain in the illusion of hope
At the thought of the faked horizon or a child's laughter and we carry on even when we stop in the snow mesmerized by the
sweep of easy wind or downy flake
Conscious of the palsy shake of old men
That allow us to be in love with easeful death.
The whistle of the nightingale or the whisper of the the snowy wind
Or in the end we sing of sunsets or sorrow full well knowing tomorrow
is not our old friend.
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