Many a dark thoughts, like engulfing dunes,
Stun his spirits to
dread this night of June,
Clinging to that face that horizon never gave,
Alas! As possible as were garden on stony grave.
Memories did but nothing to soothe his mane,
Their mighty claws dug deep to spell his bane,
Amusements that he harbored to force his smile,
Enjoyed in the present but despised for miles.
Consumed by rage and confused by reason,
He pursues a balm that might end this treason,
Awfully caught in this impregnable coffer,
He now lay wonder, “who is it that suffers”?
Nay, not this protagonist, nor his swaying resolve,
Not his intellect, nor
the expectations it dissolved,
Neither his five senses, nor his stature sublime,
And neither his triumphs nor his valour they mimed.
And hence what remained that hath to be slayed,
Was merely his belief that he was
that prey.
When mis-guided individuality that
thus was slain,
None was left to witness the dual
of pleasure and pain.
And like that river that
dissolved in mighty sea,
He lay consumed in the refrain - That
art He!
