A sorry sight,
The world in plight
Despite all we give to man’s lot:
Something hot,
A melting pot
Blossoms from forget-me-nots
In red and cream and oak;
Someone unspoke
Only seen,
Or words seen,
Or meaning gleaned
A tragic means
By which we meet.
A trick or a treat?
Heat burns in new places
And wise places
And unseen places
Of a kind unbeknownst
Previous. Like a ghost
Something familiar yet
Warm and cold and wet.
Torn between ’right’s and ’wrong’s
A man stuck twixt two songs
Of opposing nature. But think!
The two songs are writ with the same ink!
Are they, both songs, the same?
Or be this another game
Of Satan, sent by his satyrs
As they watch from a hole in Algiers,
Her history.
A mystery:
Tempted by a siren’s voice
Suddenly it isn’t a choice.
To cease from sounding prophetic
Or merely pathetic or heretic;
Both songs come mixed
Till there is no ‘betwixt’
Only grey areas of mist
Through which we twist
Until right becomes wrong and wrong, right
And the world once more is a sorry sight.