Behind the Glass
Oftentimes I wonder
As I sit here all alone --
If this world is surreal --
If all paths are etched in stone.
Is reality torn asunder
By the shadows that amass
In darkness I can't see, but feel,
Behind this pane of glass?
Frozen in the windowsill,
Iím ready and Iím willing
For love, for pain, for joy, for shame,
Watching the catacombs filling.
Even as echoes hold me still,
Might art be softer spoken?
Could you place my face in a frame
Indifference hasnít broken?
Or might that monotonous gleam
Fall from these sightless eyes?
Can I admit to incompleteness
Found searching forbidden skies?
Where lovers of a passing dream
Might share in my discord,
But never touch the emptiness
I hold as my reward.
Looking forward, thinking back,
No step is ever taken.
Where maddened eyes appear as sane
This vision comfortless and black
Affords me little chance:
At war in this non-existent plane,
I stalemate with circumstance.
And so I sit and bide my time,
Entertaining each notionÖ
Envision all that I could be,
Dusting the fringe of emotion;
Search meaning in meaningless rhyme
On the chance I might still care.
So strange, the things you never see
Beneath a dead manís stare!
[This message has been edited by Michael (06-20-2006 10:32 PM).]