Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Poem: The Love of a Mirage

The dream
is always the same.
I wander a smooth,
flat, and unforgiving desert.
The sadistic sun
as my only companion.
White hot sand,
under my feet.
Air, heavy with heat,
pressed hard against my skin.
Desire before me.
Loneliness behind me.

The destination
is always the same.
The love of a mirage.
She is distant,
She is far,
But I see her...
I know that she is there,
somehow out of reach.
She is fragile,
thinner than air.
She floats and flits,
seductive and alluring,
content to allude me.

The chase
is always the same.
I run,
I walk,
I crawl,
Always three hundred and
twenty-three steps behind,
while she cruelly bathes
within my devoted attention.
I should turn back,
maybe turn away...
She will be there too.

The vision
is always the same.
Bright, vivid blue.
Deep, dark black,
all swirl about her
in calculated unison,
like the Universe,
revolving around one
centrifugal point.
Her peculiar beauty,
has words fighting each other,
in ill-fated battles,
trying to describe it...
as I travel, transfixed.

The strife
is always the same.
Some have warned me.
Most call me a fool,
to love this mirage
that is repulsed
by being touched,
by my hands,
by my lips,
by my heart.
My goal: impossible.
However, automated legs
continue their task
toward this certain failure.

The pain
is always the same.
At first, a thick weight
takes residence upon my chest,
like a resisting hand,
pushing hard against my heart.
Dull, throbbing pain
moves downward causing my
coils to tie in knots.
Butterflies in my stomach,
transforming into dragons!
Swollen with tangled emotions,
my brain suffocates itself
against the walls of my skull.
Imprisoned, for it's crimes.

The demise
is always the same.
Secretly, my body abandons
the fruitless pursuit.
I succumb to the merciless sand.
My last steps, futile.
Here is where I am
destined to perish.
Three hundred and
twenty-three steps shy
from that playful mirage.
One last plea
for simple requited love,

The end
is always the same.
A wicked wind swoops in
to steal my final breath.
The sound of distant laughter
from the jubilant mirage,
barely reaches my ears.
Skin, muscle, bone,
all bleached by the sun,
suddenly reduced to sand.
With a whisper,
I am no more.
As I awake,
what I learn is that,
without my gaze,
without my heed,
My beloved mirage
is now lonelier than I.

~Sir William Welles

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