Here I lay before my window
                  In a moment in time that
                 Slips into oblivion as has
               Each moment that preceeded it.
               Like causes of external forces
               Shelter me in concurring arms
              Of memorial embellishment where
                  Justice has no scale and
                   Freedom shows no face.
               A trilogy of events set up in
               Ironic haste beckoned me into
              This space of odorless scent and
                    Slow-timed waltzes.
          Who has a name but one who is called and
              Who has face unless he is seen?
             Glory to the quagmire of reality.
              There is no sadness lest we put
        A cap on the power of God and the Universe.
           For pain is but gloating in self-pity,
              Abandonment in self-deprivation.
           For what reason should I pity myself?
        For, I watch the red moon rising in the East
                   And she belongs to me!

 
caelomaolain@yahoo.co.uk

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