There is a vacancy here,
a heart that is empty and bloodless, vainly constricting.
It is like a villa that has been deserted,
its gardens neglected, overgrown, weeds entangled.
His hands move idly
traversing imaginary octaves,
configuring sculptured hypotheses,
a search through sound for any kind of meaning.
Our intrusive footsteps are his continuo:
dim echoes faintly grumbling rooms excessively
filled with
dysfunctional furniture.
Gods, given the vote, would register their pitying approval for euthanasia
and only the cruelest of judges would deny
him his right to oblivion ( would not, however, have condemned
him thus to be ripped apart:
maimed discarded
dumped in the roiling dark waters of the Aegean ).
He is what he is: Orpheus-Howsoever.
Stripped to the basics
Orpheus in his Underwear.
On a checkerboard without pieces
it is impossible to identify what game is being played.
Now he makes another attempt at moving:
weeps
smashes lyre to smithereens.
Such condemnation is never external.
His executioners are but an answering call for assistance.