Not Even Dead: A Soliloquy of a Wistful Madman

The pallidness of day;
Oh, how the transparency consumes the imagination.
And the Romantic who once painted
His window with colours yet unknown, roads untouched
Is now oblivious to his own dream
The symptoms of a dreary disposition enfold;
What inspires the singularity of a faint and remote expression,
What grasps a moments consideration
Is only debris in the wake of divulgence -
A flash destruction
Of those ancient pillars which uphold the self
And bars that keep others out,
Reconstructed with every doubt;
Come the admission of that now sublte oddity
Whose presence was once honoured
As the law of the land, molded by hand.
You used to laugh at the Sinister;
Now you prostrate yourself before its every whisper.
Fully unaware of the voice inside your head
Which drowns all others.
What is left unsaid, is more than can be said;
Waking in Silence's bed, not even dead.
I watch from afar and know you are.
An empty-handed exchanged for the part;
Into the moon coated impenetrable night,
And In flesh, seen not again
What transpires, who can say.