To whom or what should I address
My private moments of distress?
Will it suffice to write them down,
The words that reflect my being down?
Or should I look towards someone older
For comforting hand upon my shoulder?
And, if not, why cannot I try
To upon my friends, instead, rely?
White lines filled with black, or blue,
Have thus far helped me to pull through
And put into clearer perspective
That dark, malevolent collective
Of sights and sounds and sounds and sights,
This mix of horror and delight.
But sense of it I can make not,
The twists and holes in this sad tale’s plot.
So where for reason can one look?
What expert’s insight, film or book
Can explain away the tragedies?
What pattern, which factor can’t we see?
Perpetual twilight, opaque windows,
Endless darkness. What else? Who knows?
I still cannot make sense of it
While here, again, I think and sit.
I know where to find my pen,
I know now how to release. But them?
The marionettes, dolls, mannequins
Whose names will line tomorrow’s bins,
What lonely impulse of delight
Could drive them to no longer fight?
How or why could they not confess
Their torment, torture or distress?