PAINted
In misued hues of the full spectrum of blues I received distressing news of another tragic ruse. It's fraught with torment and regret, horror and lament. I thought I'd have a chance to repent, but his will was hades-bent. He knew the wool he was pulling and the yarns he was spinning when he fooled me so cruelly and said he was winning. Now the onyx glazed veneer of my sardonic face in the mirror is the only thing that appears when I try to laugh away my fear. A blackness so deep and enveloping with ever darkening shadows developing. A lackluster peek into mortality, forever harkening loud banality. Every day drones on since he's been gone. Every sunrise more drear as the colors of his memory disappear. A stark grayness stretches on in the balmy bog of an autumn fog that'll only lift when winter's white drifts in and life's images start siftin' through my occluded, last mind's eye and I say secluded, steadfast goodbyes to the the kaleidoscope of dashed hopes that got strangled in the ropes of the tawny noose he strung with those sunset words he sung. I wonder what aria did utter forth in guttural discourse as he made his final descent under the silvery crescent of a weeping moon above when push came to cobalt shove? Persuaded by his own crimson woes to give-in to depression throes, he mounted the great red bridge, perhaps surmounted by dread a smidge; but, it must've floundered and he found his edge, for he moved to astound her and get revenge. Well, that Golden Gate didn't lead to any pearly ones. Hell... what emboldened state did he let his fears become? Oh, what a vast mistake to shake a loaded gun when I backed away and said, "We're done." Alas, now there's no end in sight to this ever present plight. No wrong, no right, no more will to fight. All's long gone into the dim-lit night of those navy depths into which he took flight. And now I'm marred by the repugnant scars of survivor's guilt upon which I've built my desolate island to try to survive in; this scarlet letter my only adornment. Does it get any better or am I forlorn meant? Forever destined to spiritual destitution... is there no way to amend this nor make restitution? Please, Lord, just send me a make-shift solution! I'll pepper my prayers with swift elocutions of sincere supplication, whether orthodox or gnostic. Just make it less severe so I'll have forgot and lost it. I do not want to be inexorably changed into this sepia glaze, vexed and deranged. Yet, I remain: blood-stained and teetering on sane, trying in vain to get hold and regain some stable footing on this thin sheet of ice. Perhaps balancing on a razor's edge will suffice... So, I guess I'll keep skating through this opaque, haphazard life; and I'll press on, though waiting for end's sake from this strife.
