Terre Solitaire

I'll tell you, my friend, of an infamous land--
If it is indeed that I call you my friend--
Are you willing to hear of the wonderous place
That dribbles and nudges and laughs at us all?

A picturesque setting as any could wish,
Filled to no end with the dainty delights,
That near every child would paint now and then:
Gladness, all marvels of linens and larks.

Do you not recognize some of those bits--
A blithe little fancy; a worksome's small faintness?
I too would catch a slight glimpse now and then,
And reel with the knowing that I hadn't lost them.

What thing could possibly grant such a hope?
The hidden aquaintance of a kindly dreaming--
All that begins to blink and to merge
As happy we leave that estate of our youth.

That state resides here, at the citadel deep,
Hidden from daylight to dutiful task,
Plain in the sight of the Meadows of Truth,
Built on foundations of marble and mud.

Within the beautious curtains of silver,
Living and bleeding like porcelain dolls,
Lie the sweet shades of a childlike dream--
A flutter of lashes, a twirling of whips.

Now, you would think that amidst the garrulous
Gath'ring eliete of the prettied divine,
A missive with meaning would lend itself singing
Along with the villainous falseness of them.

But, no! Not a whisper, save that which was taught,
Glimmering, hammering, clankering movements,
Symbolic of naught, and feeding a fear
That everything wanted was never a truth.

(Will you go join them, those miserly wights?
--Dwell in the shadows of yesteryear's nights?
Can you remember the joy and the lie
Brought merely by wishing-- a hopefulsome cry?)

Look now on ashes and sand-blown browned grasses,
Loved things you've forgotten, and aspirations,
Mixed with the horror of living its days
Placed far away with the things that should die.

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