There will come soft rains,
one day
When the traces of our
forefathers
Leave us behind soaked in its
glories.
Now in these days of the
locusts
And mechanical automatons
the chimes
Of their stories find place
in manifold ways;
While the chill of a
November gust
Curves up my legs in the
anguish of
My daily living and the
tattle tale rhyme
Of mockery and untold
devices must
Unfold before the eyes of a
nonchalant being.
I am the silent sufferer, it
is me
That chose to digress
further to those unworldly
Voices, bringing with it a
tide of dubious meanings.
It was self-doubt in a way
that chose
To degrade me and question
my means of living;
But of a sanguine evening
when all was quiet
I found that the road to
self-discovery
Was more apathy than
self-annihilation,
While the rest was being
alive and making merry.
I wait for that day when the
droplets
Of sanguine memory seek to
engulf me,
Berating me for my lost
conscience
And to carry along in their
vein
This untenable story of
psychosis and me.
