Tuesday, August 05, 2003

" "
by Myrna Perez

This is my cup of pain
My lot of sorrow from this world
But a drop; still heavy with salt.
What passed before was but a trite mockery
of this, But a shallow reminder of life.
A pale contrast to the
Endless happiness.
Was my joy but an illusion?
A masquerade, an absence of
pain, and not reality?
My faith bitter frail,
Like old spun glass.
Not because I rail at fate,
But I realize the depth
of my own weakness.
A stream of words pours forth:
Is this me speaking; all the right words.
As if it were a game to be won.
My hope has not flown,
My song is not dead.
But both are pale
and spent.
This gray stone lives within my heart.
Where is the flow of life?

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