les malencontreux

Amid the yellowed flowers there,

I dream of pursuit and of folly;

Furrowed, furrowed,

Pursuing all that was worth pursuing.

     I stood there, once.

     I chose to love, a little.

And lying in this bed, periwinkle summer skies

Framing them all we had to offer;

This dreamer of the dreams worth dreaming,

But would they cradle me, now?

Would they dare comfort me with their warmth?

When all things are written in yellowed pages,

Pasted up behind these smudged glass frames?

And what of dreams, like glacier sheets,

And overcome with all I have to offer?

Pursuer, creator!- I dare dream of beauty here.

     And forever, I chased your blue-green light,

     Behind and around those bowered,

     I dreamed again of you, there,

     Behind that smudged glass door.

But here we are again, les malencontreux:

The wild ones, dreaming once of Versaille.

And here we are again, my friend,

We unfortunate ones;

Standing there, stolen, still,

Amid these timeless arts.

     I rapped the door, once,

     Twice, thrice, and wondered if you'd heard.

     I fell into your pale blue eyes,

     And chose to swim in the warmth there,

     For as long as you'd allow.

Once more, we'd find the pride to say,

     "I'd like to say! I'd like to say!

      I have so many things to say-"

But there are no gods in this quiet corner.

Not in this state of entropy,

Not even as that pale blue light

Flickers on and on-

Here at the end of all things.

     "Find me now, behind these frayed edges,

      My yellowed pages.

      Between the silhouettes,

      The space between the bold typeface;

      Find me here behind my door."