The Haunting

There is a ghost
haunting my steps.
A phantom glimmering
of a life lived well.

Possibility's wraith,
of mistakes not made,
of promises that were kept,
of betrayals not felt.

The spectre of lost hope
that cries of my despair,
born of disillusionment,
of stillborn dreams.

Opportunities squandered
and left abandoned,
only mirages casting shadows
of Technicolor holographic dreams

I am left in the ruins,
knowing only the bitterness
of unalloyed Sorrow,
sweetened by the gall
of what might have been.

(c) Tortured Cyclone 2018

Quicksilver Fancies

Sometimes my thoughts escape me
like the quicksilver fancies
of a mildly psychopathic
but ultimately benificent kitten
where it doesn't know
which plaything to choose first
I flit from inspiration
to fascination, from dream
to thought to idle musing,
borne by currents
of which I have no ken
letting the tide take me
to places I never conceived
I would go,
surrendering to Life's happenstance
like a submissive
to his Mistress' whim
knowing only that enlightenment
dwells in all places
and enchantment exists
in all facets of creation.

Like an adolescent Tom
I bat at one tantalizing idea,
only for my eye to be
caught by another,
which I pounce upon,
drawing it close to me.
I rake it with every claw
of my exuberant creativity
until, losing interest,
I chase a mirage
around another corner,
losing all reckoning
of the thought
that drew me hence.

For that reason I despair,
for which dreams have I
brought to fulfillment,
and which have I forsaken?
But I can do no less
because the world lures me on.

I am caught there,
gyring high into the air...
aloft in the eye of the cyclone
to be left behind in some realm
I never dreamt I'd find,
living a life that seems
merely serendipitous.
Seeking the reasons why
it rains in China
when the butterfly sings.