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