Haughty Travesties

Cycles of pain

Periods of rain

Struggles of heart remain

A life without cause

A time without reward

Fills the soul of discord.

To wince but once

At this bleak design

Is to refuse all

Born of the vine.

So disturb me not

On this treacherous route

And let me pass not

Into harms way.

For to tarry

Is to damn oneself

And to wait is to bring shame.

So I mustn’t be late.

For I must run

Over jagged stone

And into the face

Of a burning sun

For I have been

So misunderstood.

For callous indifference

Surrounds me

From those yet to fully see.

As they in ritual appeasement

Choke on the very word

That was meant

To set them free.

For shallow are their minds

As they in false company

Challenge me one last time.

 For they in indifference

bring to cause

Their souls last breath,

Their souls very pause.

Their souls final quest.

For I will win this race to the sun,

And I will rejoice with victory won,

I will not look back and I will not fret,

For it will be easy for me

Of those who misunderstood…

To forget.

So onward I surge

Past the lies and hurt,

Over these jagged stones,

That like knives cut to the bone.

As hot sweat pours

From my furrowed brow

And blood pours from torn feet

I still make my way toward

The gate somehow.

I move on with exhaustion

I toil from failing desire,

Yet I wear them well,

As I would some new attire.

However though I weep not for me,

Neither do I weep for you,

For you in your haughty travesties,

will receive your just dues.

For my race has now been run

And I have reached life’s most desired gate.

Though broken in body, and my mind worn,

I arrive with my soul intact…delivered from

Villainous scorn.

La mia corsa è fatta

J. Allen Wilson © 2004

*Note* In the last post that I made for my wife, I inadvertantly left some wording outof the first paragraph, as well as the complete title...it should have read.

Lady Regret Dances...with the following paragraph being correct...sorry about the error.

So you think you can escape the bitter taste of liquid illusions that present themselves on a pale platter of silence and tease and taunt the warmth of intoxication to which your false reality has taken like a lover, and with many sighs has not only entertained, but has danced the night through giving no curiosity to the morbid chill that Lady Regret would some day lay at your feet, and with a kiss upon your screeching moan, and a smile at the frost of your terror, demand her payment in full?