Unalive
I am unalive. I am not dead
but neither do I live: I exist
in black & white, which are uncolors
(mixed together they make gray).
Sight, sound, movement & sensation are
mere mechanics by themselves . . . love lends life
joy & enjoyment. I’ve seen music
dance with emotion; I’ve heard colors sing
in chorus & shadow wooing light. . . your visage
whispers into focus, appearing in the past
tense. Nostalgia recalls better days; intimate,
poignant nights . . . ah, those fragrant, sensuous
nights! Your eyes bristle with reproach
& damn me with disdain. I am reconciled to
remorse. I am unalive. The saline of sorrow
surges to my stubbled, haggard face;
dissipation gnaws neglected flesh & the stench
of stagnation pervades this vacant room . . .
where once the color of laughter rippled like a
rainbow; where now the funereal silence of
solitude enshrouds me in its pall &
my body is the heart’s tomb.
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Ron