Well I ain't stinking rich
And I ain't stinking poor
I guess what's important is
I'm still here stinking
And I ain't a pile of manure.

in a room of unimaged beauty
with curtains woven
from threads of unused dreams
and carpets embroidered
by imaginings of crumpled poetry

songs of hope and fantasy
are left unsung
written on blank pages
carefully laid on the piano
whose keys are all black

here is served perfect tea
in exquisite porcelain cups
each place set with polished silver
giving no reflection

the Things That Might Have Been
are the only guests
they appear in their seats
translucent and shimmering
gaining solidity
staring at their perfect tea
in its exquisite porcelain cup

but they do not drink

if two materialize at the same table
they gaze at each other
with pleading eyes
needing with all their fragile existence
an answer

reasons may be exchanged
but not one of them ever
has an answer

they dissolve
hoping to return
for an answer

leaving behind their perfect tea
in its exquisite porcelain cup

in each shattered fragment
of time
we are forced apart

there is nothing of me
that does not cry out
for everything of you

wrapped in the tatters of my body
in this measureless place

I search for release
among the disconsolate boles
thin as hope
hard and dark

wearing pallid shrouds
of frozen lace
proudly displayed
in their alfresco mausoleum

an inexhaustible study
in the extremes
of leaden purity

their moribund limbs
and ice sheathed fingers
reach into me
pulling me on

tears of other lives
in frosted glory
cold upon my wintered face

always renewed
and living on
in fractal eternity