despairing whispers

It speaks to me of a barren soul
of withered minds, rotten whole

of gravel red with worthless blood
and dignity writhing in the mud,

of ravenous hate worn on the sleeves
of eternal want, the joy of thieves

of darkness shrouding the desolate land,
night and day, harsh in its stand

of lies and truths, hawked on the street
of triumphant lust, of love’s defeat

but then it strays to faraway lands
to dancing waves and golden sands

where reaching out to the pure azure
spirits freely, merrily soar

sparkling red and glittering gold
seductive sirens from days of old

where love is easy and happiness right
time stops to serve the senses’ delight

the soul, unburdened, unhindered, set free
looks to nothing but that moment of glee

and yet, in the throes of temporary bliss
something’s vaguely but surely amiss

for in that haze, as life is blurred
firmly, sullenly, it says not a word

back in the darkness, the misery, the gloom
the season of whispers remains in bloom

for in this firmament, starless and bleak
the mystic heart deigns to speak.