Saturday, January 01, 2000

Minstrel

A mad man I am not
But a mere troubled minstrel.

I look not at the sun
But listen to its heartbeat.
I hear.
Wails of lambs. Lamentation.
Disgruntled moans. Crying violins.

I breathe not air
But cursory images of life.
I see.
Carnage. Speeding bullets.
Mildew. Emerald men with wings.

I sing not sweet lullabies.
But choleric people's angst.
I resound.
Echoes of melancholia. Thunderous screams.
Sobs of unwanted souls. Apathy.

I am but a troubled spirit.

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