I am the ash heap
the pitted false patina
of Gatsby's grand menagerie of dreams.
50 years it will be -- since I first arrived
youthful, carefree -- clever and admired --
now I am
trampled upon, discarded in throws and fits of my own demise
sequestered, tormented, the gaiety of
entertaining the folly of youth's extravagance -- spent
waltzing in the reaches of entreaties I had entertained.
When I was more than 30-- there was love --- and passion ...
and the dream began. But not mine to claim.
I am the Countess Olenska's sensibility...wistfully refusing, aching still.....
I am Bovary... reckless.
I am Chopin crafting Edna drowning in her Awakening,
and a Grand Isle now battered by fury and tempest winds.
... l have become the bitterness of Camille -- cast away, reclused --destroying all she crafted - each day awakening in angst when Rodin's hand now longer reached out to touch her skin --
I am allegory and compromise
muse and misery
Numbed, drugged...and paralyzed
The only recompense a pen
and white space to cleave between.