Spare me but a moment,
No longer,
No less.
Allow me to drift away from this place;
Allow me to close my weary eyes,
And disappear.

In this moment,
I shall be freed from the anachronism
That is within me
And surrounds me.
I shall no longer hear the shriek
Of fleeting automobiles,
Nor the scattered screams and shouts
Of the fools in the city.

It shall all vanish,
Only to be relieved by
Those ancient, mesmerizing melodies
Of both music and laughter.

No longer shall I see the gray tiled floors
Glazed with an insidious toxic polish,
Nor strain my eyes to see beyond
The flashing neons of places I dare not tread.
I shall see only the fond smiles
Of lovers,
As they sway back and forth amidst
The mellifluous music of the gala.

I want nothing more than to sway,
To be held in the arms of a man
Who no longer exists.
Through agonizing ages,
It seems the gentlemen could not endure
All that threatened to erase them from
This world.

The tower grows ever taller wherein
Rapunzel waits;
The taste of the apple that
Poisoned Snow White
Still lingers upon her lips.
Sleeping Beauty ever rests;
No prince shall come
To her aid.

Spare me but a moment,
For if time is truly manmade,
Allow me to drift away
Eternally into the past.

Your cynical stride will seldom foretell
Of the struggles within your personal Hell;
Your words are your walk,
Spread with whispers and talk,
Like rancid butter on your side of the bread.

Your hat tilted down in its own sort of frown,
You step inside with a smile.
The court room’s ablaze,
And in the heat of your gaze,
No other writer dares glance in your direction.

You tread upon a red carpet of sin,
So they say of your fame and your glory;
Despite what they say about every story,
They know not the pain from within.
Though twilight lingers at the top of the world,
The stage is dark when your curtain’s unfurled.

Beneath the jocular tone you display,
Your semblance of wisdom has given way.
There’s a crown of thorns that you must wear
As the crowd continues to jeer and to stare.

Night after night like that pile of papers,
Your typewriter sings but your hearing tapers.
What good is music to the deaf?
What are words worth when they mean nothing,
If they are not written to be sincere?

While being a cynic’s your fascination,
It will not serve as consolation.
You love only your words and never cry,
At least not before the crowd’s cruel eye;
What doest the king alone in his court,
When friends are few and supply is short?

Perhaps when alone the king will see,
Despite the words he writes so masterfully,
That he is ever king of sorrow,
Writing alone into tomorrow.