"The Final Scene"

Back to black weary my mind
dancing in the dark with the dark,
too afraid to be alone in the room
seeing the vase broken in my hand,
with roses that should have bloomed
loving me a time to believe in Valentine.

Thoughts become disgusted with waiting
invincible without cigarettes or the wine,
glimpsing to see the wall, mindlessly
the clock telling time for dancing.
There below the horizon, shining
brightly a new light in the sky,
eclipsed by the moon in my mind
a lady loving me in words of wisdom -

“Never talk to a lonely psychiatrist, crying
his thoughts shadowed on a ceiling,
years worn weary like a bare bone
hidden down deep in the dark.
Back to black in a grave
his headstone laughing,
rising from burnt ashes
where is your Valentine?”

I must be dreaming,
my weary mind seeing
his door in a padded cell,
the clock on the wall with time.
Ticking away my lies, believing why
spying eyes of a demented psychiatrist,
trying to surround his words around mine
back in black my mind hidden far away.

Beaming eyes staring down at me
strapped to this bed so bare,
my bouquet of red roses
fading in a memory,
strewn on the floor
the final scene.