she sits and stares at the writing on the wall
wondering who put it there and why
is it all supposed to become clear sometime?
this mussed up muddled mess of life
the melancholy melody of mediocrity
swarming around her
standing still, stable,
and utterly alone
forgotten perhaps
or maybe just overlooked
every now and then...

stop spitting your silly words
of Saviors and Second Comings
when the only thing to save her from is
the cynical society you structured
with your own bare hands...

your longing gazes
your lusting eyes
wandering shamelessly to the places
your hands crave to be
to touch, to feel, to pull her apart
ripping her piece by piece
starting from the inside and working your way out
slowly and meticulously
everything as it should be,
or so you whisper in her reluctant ear
red with rusted tears hiding fears
under the makeshift cloak of your sweat and hers
together forming the one stale stench
of what the sailors call love
(but the poets know as the game we play)
one step closer to our whimsical mythical biblical quest
for completion
which we know will never be achieved,
at least not here in the eye of the storm...

oh but to try in vain towards that inconceivable end
while all around us dreams are dying daily
and another innocent girl falls asleep in tears
as her husband reaches out to touch her hand
only to ask for another beer
and maybe the remote control...

and scared children shake in the arms of strangers
trying to replace the memories
the shouting
the words
the anger
the pain
the echoing sirens fading,

yes, life is a beautiful, sorrowful thing.

By Adia Cecilia

© 2004 Adia Cecilia (All rights reserved)


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