I am enwrapped in some dark shroud
of a dream that lost its way along the way.
I see variegated futures but they seem just out of reach.
I thought I would become the man I envisioned
in the dead of the night, by the fires' light.
But there is a storm that has never let up;
there is a weariness right behind my eyes
that enervates the very mass of me—what little it be.
I used to propel myself like a comet
across the multiverse of my mind,
birthing stars and careering far.
But the darling daughters of my great vault
do not dance in their everlasting light.
I lay still now—dormant—a deep slumber
in which the shades take ghastly form.
Listening intently for the music of yesteryear:
the sound of galaxies that once so comforted me.
M.M.
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