Reaching, stretching, grasping,
Into thin air I am rasping,
Of a bibelot long lasting,
Adorning my Voltaire.
Wherefore this object I know not,
But its center brings me rot,
Whilst my days exist distraught,
And my mind is left befogged.
I seek out in expenditure,
And leave a trail of fissure,
Throughout the heathens toppled in juncture,
That I do pursue this inestimable jewel.
I take to my confines alone,
And sit upon my adorned throne,
To read of lore forgot and thrown,
To a bedside somewhere, nay, a conflagration.
I do sit and stare at times,
And contemplate some great nostalgia rhymes,
Of which results in painful crimes,
That I do care to be rid from.
I sit and stare and lay out bare,
Listening to the cackle so fine and fare.
I wonder if, in sane mind, people could really care,
For the vagrant mind that is all mine and the wrench upon its crest.
I wish the tension to be gone,
And the memories relived without this pawn:
I so may reset my life to life’s con,
And all is restored without a heed to be torn.
What a pretty thought,
That all may be meticulously brought,
Before a head masterfully wrought,
And a reality left behind.
But what has not been reckoned,
Is this pain that has been beckoned,
And its fraternal magistrate seconded,
Of wish I must suffer indefinitely.
What is this token, this trinket I cannot bare?
What is a plague which spreads without care?
What is trial that is not fair?
It is all of these and more, of which may not be limned.
What purpose is a lowly discrete entity?
Why should others pacify my sanity,
When I drive myself a nulled sense of sobriety;
I am left in vexata.