The moving blanket of clouds dull the light of day
Darkening my shadow in my little room.
My body feels the energy of rain and wind
Tho I am only witness, not in contact.
So, I write upon my tablet as my thumbs touch each letter
Crafting the work seen here. But I have not to say.
No purpose but to write. No sense of story.

That is who I am.

Rain comes slashing ‘cross my windowpane,
My summer comes abruptly to an end.
Once again, I’m calling out her name,
In my head it’s easy to pretend.
Sin ti no tengo sol, Alena.

I wish that I could fly
As high as any bird on feathered wing,
To soar and proudly sing
Above the trees; to touch an azure sky!

So happily I’d sing
The purest joy of song and merriment,
As if though Heaven sent
From Angels, given by God’s welling spring!

And from my fancied flight
I’d worry not of life or death, or care
Of wealth or strife, unfair,
Or sully, selfishly, one single night!

But I am only Man
And thus, I know not truest happiness
As life, a complex mess
For me, is difficult to understand.

Slow as Summer’s lazy days,
At rest, the River dozes;
Lulls the fish, in many ways,
To swim in carefree poses.
Me: upon the river’s edge,
An unassuming sinner,
Pole and drowning worm, I pledge
To make these fish my dinner!
‘Neath the shroud of sycamore
Or oak (I have to proffer)
Shaded on the lazy shore
For sleep is all they offer.
Care be gone! This way I live
For if a moment planted,
Let the day get as she give
A prayer, the rest she granted.
Gentle as the River flows
I lost determination .
Hungry only for repose,
I’ve closed my eyes to ration.

I brought along my melancholy smile
To show my friends I’m doing fine.
I’ll hide behind this tattered mask awhile
So nary one may sense decline.
And I will cheat their ev’ry deep concern
By simply brushing with my hand
The worries they will state but never learn
As none would ever understand.
This tattered mask has served me very well
Through all my days of inner rain,
When cause for celebration I can sell
My feeble smile to hide the pain.
So when my friends suspect distress and ask
I simply don this well-worn, tattered mask.

When withered roses on the vine are doomed
To that which all rewards, sufficed, fulfilled,
Deformed by age and death, their use long tilled,
Returned to Earth as if they never bloomed,
‘Tis my despair, consumed by moral plight,
As I go round in circles with my mind:
Am I a selfish fool to rage this fight
To tear away these mortal ties that bind?
Rejection better fields those I depend,
Protect and push away their battered souls,
Betray the basic human needs; pretend
An independence draws my certain goal!
So, for these reasons stated here above,
I’ve made my choice, and Thus I cannot love.