Purged from the pains held inside,

Pain finds a victim, nonetheless.

Traversing the corridors tear-cried,

Tormenting pleas and lamentations,

Murdering a soul that’s died;

Many times been buried whole.

Tragedies in black and white,

Thrive in kind, unfortunate-fools,

Drenched in the mournful mists of night.

-The mis’ry fogging passioned-dreams.-

For nothing is ever put right.

Compassions’ agony is sure,

Hovering in distorted airs.

Expressionisms tell their stories,

Tip-toeing up minds’ unconscious-stairs,

On said victims’ door to knock, knock.

The sound which invites, yet scares,

Open door brings forth new frights.

K. Aldaya, 5/11/05

Picture: “Some People Feel What Others Dream Of” by fantasyn on bestuff.com; http://bestuff.com/stuff/some-people-feel-what-others-dream-of