I am the ash heap

the burn

the rust

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

fractured, shattered

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.