The End of the Road . . .

The Autumn leaves
curl their copper fingers
to greet the stormy winds while. . .


I walk the familiar dark
                       pathways,
shiny with the fallen rain,
and melodious with the certain
                 quietude that
descends like a cloak
                 to muffle the atmosphere
before the dawn . . . and

I follow my well worn trail,
        as in the dark I am prone
to wander off
                   and lose myself in the still lakes. . .


where I float face down,
hair streaming like tendrils
                    of long grasses. . .
forming question marks
         against my face. . .


My arms drift listlessly by my side
and I hear a distant melody
                             as of temptation,
while sightless fishes
                        nibble at my vulnerabilities:


my face quickly relieved of my burning, weeping eyes while,
my breasts, gnawed away, leaving a gaping hole
through my rib cage,
which like prison doors,
painfully open with a groan
giving egress to any interest . . .


and my heart drifts away slowly
in the blackness of the water
still beating,
and leaking away its warm blood
in spurts . ..
while my vocal cords
calling the names of whom I have loved
are broken like violin strings
as if in a violent fire
exploding outward . . .


Yes . .  I am lost if I drift off my path,
these roads
leading nowhere,
but to my end . . .

the end of the road

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