Bête Noire

                                            Picture Courtesy: Google

I am a scribe to this night-

this night, that has

addressed to me its agonies

and confessed to me

its handicap.

I am a stooge of this life-

this life, that has

needed me to be its accomplice

and needled me

into being.

To be or not to be?

To be or not to be?

I walk free.

And freedom's futility

is known to me.

Do you hear the violin

she plays?

And do you see him there,

fondling her chin

in his dream?

To be or not to be?

To see or to flee?

Words? Bah.

Songbirds.

He'd talked to me of flutes.

And his skin was blue.

I dived but didn't get through.

I am only a scribe to the night.

Yet when it rains,

I weep.

Embroideries of emotions

underline his eyes,

and they say

poetry is hyperbole.

Be. Don't be.

I am a slave to those eyes,

those eyes, that have

owned me an eternity

and owed me

tears.

When blackbirds

will reach the sun,

the horizon

will not be.

And they will not be.