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
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:
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:
smashes lyre to smithereens.
Such condemnation is never external.
His executioners are but an answering call for assistance.