Too Bad

I live inside my dark
illusion,
built up for long three
thousand years.
I patch my fallen wings
with wire and needles;
drink myself blissful
on my ageless tears.
If I try hard I might
remember--
pick up the pieces of
the golden trap.
But with the ages at
my fingertips to toy with,
I find it still the only puzzle
that I simply can't unwrap.

I want a freedom--
I want the sun upon
my eyes again.
I need to breath in--
I need another chance
to be the person that
I never was back then.
I need. . .
I want. . .

Too bad.

I walk across my maze
of shadows,
my tomb my home
my heart and soul.
Left longing for a sign
of who I was,
or who I was meant to be
could I be whole.
It should not matter
ages later,
if the beggar once was
Priest
or King--
but I am dying in my deathlessness,
and the damned must have
some thing.

I want a trial--
I want to feel I'm not
condemned without a cause.
I need some answers--
I need a shield of something solid,
to protect me from these claws.

They are despair,
and they are memories gone dry.

I want,
I need,
I beg,
I cry. . .

Too bad.

I played the game
I placed my bet
I cannot win
but nor lost yet.
The pieces gleam,
the riddle smiles
now just a. . .
just a little while--

Just give me one more
thousand years;
more blood more sweat
more seeping tears.
I do not give.
I cannot lose.
You say too--

Too bad.

'Too bad for you.'  






September 23 2003