Fifteen Tercets of Mental Detachment.

photo by Diletta Shakespeare

A consecutive cascade of raindrops
   flows on my skin and
transfers their repose unto my mind.

A set of petals scattered in the wind
   dance their way through
freedom and into the obscure abyss.

A subtle voice whispers to me silently,
   lingers between my thighs
and holds me captive into its sound.

My flaming, frail body crawls on yours
    and naked in the darkness
my shell remains still, shaking, suspended.

This is me, a wretched and erratic void
   whose pores exude pain
and an incurable yearning for satiety.

A broken toy and a dusty phonograph
   forsaken in a solander
buried somewhere in the well of memory.

A volcano resides in my weary chest
   and is about to erupt
while you slumber in peaceful quiet.

A collection of fantasies has summoned
   in the darkest and brightest
corners of my soul, eager and unfulfilling.

You keep dragging me into a state of
   awake dreaming
that keeps taking reality away from me.

I can finally see you walking towards me,
   you resist me no more,
and I indulge, I surrender, I fall apart.

But the voice of Reason transfixes the
   howling silence
and with utmost exasperation screams at me

WAKE UP! WAKE UP!
THIS IS NOT REAL.
WAKE UP!

WAKE UP!
WAKE. UP.
THIS IS NOT REAL.

THIS IS NOT REAL.
THIS IS NOT REAL.
WHY ISN'T THIS REAL?

WHY ISN'T THIS REAL?
WHY ISN'T THIS REAL?
WHY ISN'T THIS--

Why.