The death of poems from the past in their futile search for meaning..

Fragments of memories
Fling themselves around me
Like tattered shreds of dreams
What this music does to me
I cannot explain.
I lied today
To hide my love
That spilled out of me
Like first showers
I concealed its hidden tinges
I tightened the noose around its neck

He will not.

In loneliness
The beauty of time
Stands still
Like a broken hourglass.

Will my old poems die
When their meaning is gone?
Why has life not chosen me
For the high valleys
Of warmth and sunshine
Why do I bleed?
Gripped by the thorny throttle
Of a life
That is neither here nor there.
Are there sunshines?
Or the imaginary butterflies
And colours that grow
In the garden of my mind?
Are there blue skies?
Around me
There is darkness
And the bleached pallor
Of a faded shroud.
There are broken twigs
Torn pages
Crumpled desires
Thrown about in indifference
And haste.
There is ruthlessness.
There is a lady called death
Walking by
With a twisted smile.
There is a self
Bent by the weight of tears
There is loneliness
Gazing at the ticking clock.
There are voices
Of denied tomorrows
Of deluded yesterdays
And vivid dreams
I am in love with sadness
And death…
Why do I wish
To be carried away
To a land of fresh love?
Why do many formless candles
Or inane drops of hope
Suspended in nothingness
Not show me
That molten mirrors
Are neither warm
Nor icy cold.
All reflections on the ripples
Of a hazy past
Descend down deeper
Into a frozen stillness called me.

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