Dere

 

If I were to sing of my woes,

the throes that keep me on my toes,

would you echo the solo where my pain is deepest, 

and clap to the rhythm of my unrest?

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*

*

It's noon but I see the moon, 

it's light, the only gleam in my gloom,

the only tether that keeps me aloft

the drift of life's loom.

If I were to sing of my woes,

the throes that keep me on my toes,

would you echo the solo where my pain is deepest, 

and clap to the rhythm of my unrest?

For I am the fly that is trapped in a warp;

in the escape-proof net of ancient spiders

who have mastered the art of unity

and now ally to devour my dreams.

Dreams, that are plagued with black slates,

outlined with thin chalk lines like tally marks

and pictures of a different me, 

that will never be.

 

I have lost my will to fight,

'cos it's a lost cause

I have been dealt the hand,

my own have given my hand.

When it's your time,

would you tell my tales like a mime,

unshell the true desires of my weary heart 

in your world now sublime.

That all may know that I was,

that Dere yearned for what's now yours.

©Joy Ande

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