Longing….that it were an idle thing.
Forsaking love, and truth, and light.
It is not right, for that a plight,
Should delve into a silent desperate prayer.
Yes sing, oh sing!…
Decadently….that be not spent vilely.
Emphatic whispers, whispers, whispers,
Heired to blundered brain-bestirs;
Mixing, mis-fixing, and plainly nixing,
What should and shouldn’t be.
Overtly….that in sight one may see,
Privations of what could…could be.
“If only” contempts of contagion set free.
Longing….that it be not long, the cure,
For what cannot be.
K. Aldaya, 7/26/06
Picture: Performance in the Bolshoi Theatre from Alexander II Coronation Book of 1856; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Performance_in_the_Bolshoi_Theatre.JPG
My Soul is a Lock Without a Key 
