les pâturages de l'âme

vi, the high of coming days

the raspberry skies crack open and let soar

ropes of sour tears but spare none of the delight

out of my warm grave i hear how they pour,

with a conviction merciless to dim lights

in vast stern waves they lap at me and beckon,

sink into my flesh the white-hot tang of a sermon

one that gags my laments then loosely declares

"of fate's tapestry you're the only seamstress",

a sympathetic blow yet it killed them square:

the ice-cold daydreams that had the grip of a mistress

of a hare the elusiveness, of a songstress the flair

they led me through the path to times of sugary sweetness

where storms of dust had settled without a care,

eager to spin my yearning into a lifelong illness.

destiny's fathomless face i sat near

only to be greeted with a worry-stricken sneer

an abyss not worth staring into, an emaciated goldmine

is the true form of existence's written lines

what needs to be cherished is the world where they flutter

and above all the audience they keep in the gutter

entranced by a familiar melody much too loyal to the haze,

deaf to the hollowness of the promises which tear them asunder

slaves to the sleaziness that's been woven without a trace

into this pasture where they fondly wander

numb from the high of coming days