A poem of mourning.
|Pretending Who I Am
Once, when still I felt life's passion, sparks, and beat of hearts,
Stagecraft's troubles, tattered faith, within my feeble acting parts.
Silken pearls of hopes, transformed themselves to raven tar drops,
Then adhered to every inch upon my weakened, hammered stage props.
Oh, have I ended the facade of joyful wanderings with man?
Not I, who speak with tasteless words, pretending who I am.
How do you do? What answer should I offer, being asked?
I do not do, or if I do, not well enough to even dream the task.
I would have rather lost all blood and flesh, than tender up my soul.
Now, staring into sunlit sky, whose image changed to blackened hole.
Gone forever more, the object of my never ending yearnings,
Jazelle, whose love, whose sweet embrace, in death be ne'er returning.