Salvaging my tremulous existence,
Squeezing my schizophrenic identity,
Out of these sundered vicissitudes of life,
I shrug the mortal coil of,
This morbidly maudlin, Hamletian dilemma.
I am and I am not,
Reminiscing the excruciating visions,
From the panorama of years left behind.
I encounter weltschmerz,
Waltzing within my wandering soul,
Soul? Call it a cauldron of seething angst.
Misplaced, mistaken moralities,
Premature, perturbed priorities,
Cobwebs of compunction,
Clobbering my conscience.
Innocent, unnamed relationships,
Which could have, but which never,
Fragile friendships, which appeared self- sustaining,
But were crucified at the alter of—
Eloquent egos, and then,
All those lost loves,
Which vanished in infinite, inescapable,
Inextricably ineluctable mirages of oblivion.
“Who wants to live anyway?”
But then, someone says,
“The darkest hour is nearest to dawn”,
These comforting clothes of hope I don,
And embark upon that eternal pursuit of
Catharsis and Salvation.
“When will tomorrow come?”