Sought intimate
spaces
for self-
lost private places
for nurturing
health.
Grew weary with
waning
insistence,
wilted and arid, the
stem
aches with thirst
the worst exposure
to lunar light
this side of
mourning
the death of circus
dreams.
It seems the sun
disperses
its golden dust
according to an
architecture
of ideal.
Beholden to the
barriers molded
by hand-
curses stand as they
must, in spite of us
for a time.
As last
sunsets free
the stars, placing
winking faces
astronomical units
apart
and fixed on never
being
yours or mine.
“Our tendency to build walls is useful only to provide a starting point for self-definition, walls that contain the bed in which we are born, in which we dream, we breed and we die; but outside the walls lies Siddhartha;s realization that all human beings grow old, all are prone to nightmare and disease, and all must ultimately come to the same implacable end. Books endlessly repeat that one same story.” (“The Library at Night” by Alberto Manguel p. 229)
Artwork by Evelyn De Morgan, 'The Prisoner' c. 1908 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
