Any New Day

[Poem XXIV]

A dirge.

The tink–tink–tinkle of the piano keys: the softest song of
sorrow that dolefully sounds each note of this unwavering
line, a bottom-dwelling progression—the nadir that cannot
be overcome, as the exultant sun overcomes every new day. But
each rising... I would not know what the fire below the horizon,
the first gleaming ray or the final triumph really were. Perhaps the
gloaming's loss, its inevitable defeat—perhaps these know more
of me (and yet, no more would I know even of them). My hands
once were children that played with the wind at the times when
the world was to me most alive and lively. When they combed
through the locks of another they used to guide the hero on
odysseys so fantastic, and helped me understand comfort and
contentment when comfort and contentment were mine. Now
they slog through mire and push past thornbush. Nowhere's the
destination on a road to nowhere. A coldness walks with me,
a heaviness holding on, a weariness upon my brow—and yet I
walk alone. I see a withered man standing before me, covered
in a greying ash that accentuates cavernous eyes; cinders fall
away at a brush of his worn face, but as hard as he tries he
cannot simply wipe himself clean, cleanse himself anew. Over
time I have fashioned myself a mask: it too can be the strong
one—feign strength; it too can smile—front a smile. But left on
my own, confined to the prison in my mind, and all I can think
is that tomorrow is yet another day— 

M.M. — December MMXI; Februarius MMXII