The Miseries of the Mind
Listen to the sobbing air, smothered by
a satanic blanket of carbon monoxide.
Condemn me not, though I may be impatient,
for my wishes are aborted under industrial waste.
Weave your glowing tapestry of life; believe me,
I won't touch your creation lest it be tarnished,
permit me to view the process of your creation,
so pure and divine, which, my moribund mind
will observe silently, in utter seclusion.
From the realm of rustic serenity, far from
all urban ructions, the insomniac nightingale makes
a last call for lonely hearts, that resonates
in the mind of broken delirious people in a tavern.
My dream is another version of reality.
My love is alive, injured and bleeding unceremoniously.
I suppress the sound when it writhes in pain,
stabbed by the fruitless cravings for affection.
10th November, 2019
LAST CALL FOR LONELY HEARTS Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
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