whythecynic?

I am incomprehensibly tired.

A number, blinking in the pale of white
Alerted him to see what he had sought-
A star amongst a million in the night;

With joy, he stood and danced, two left, one right,
And designated it- three-four-three-ought-
A number blinking. In the pale of white

Of sixty hertz and forty watts of light,
He dialled his girlfriend on the phone he bought,
A star amongst a million in the night,

Told her the news, then sat back down and sighed.
And then- a shiver- words in throat he caught-
A number, blinking in the pale of white,

He googled up his age and weight and height,
And he was there- all numbers in the plot-
A star amongst a million. In the night

Sat he, repulsed, revolted at the sight,
Stood, trembling, sure that he was what he thought-
A number blinking in the pale of white,
A star amongst a million in the night.

They go to see a play of hopes and fears;
Expecting blood and death and tragedy,
They want to break their hearts and shed their tears.
But though the theatre still stands on the lee,
It shows no tragedy nor comedy-
The stage is spartan, and there is one light,
And figures in a symphony of white.

At first, accountants gave their wary leers,
But soon it proved to be a hit-to-be
And cleared up all they still had in arrear.
The older patrons muttered, left it be,
But newer ones were all amused to see
Avant-garde things, and took some strange delight
At figures in a symphony of white.

And though nobody understands, they fear
For some strange reason, trembling eerily
To watch those faceless forms in pale appear
And then dissolve, some others turn to flee,
While more yet rise and cavort endlessly;
Nobody thought to ask of the playwright
Why figures in a symphony of white-

And he alone is certain, he is clear:
It is a joke too plain for eyes to see,
It is a play for audiences to steer;
The subject, Man! The actors, you and me!
The time is now, the plot is life! And we
Are they! But no-one yet has guessed it right:
Who figures in that symphony of white?

quite sad

that his fondest memories
are beneath the sky in new zealand's winter
watching the stars in their purest shimmer
as he tried to think of anyone to be near
but nobody came to mind- not even her-

she was not there at the lakes in summer
at wordsworth's garden, no, she did not appear
though the air and the scent were fresh and clear
those were all that he could call dear

and certainly not by the peace-filled river,
only the breath and the heartbeat's tremor
in contemplation, alone, with the quiver
of leaves in japan, in the spring of the year

not in memory far, or in person near,
nobody does his remembering hear,
no touch in nostalgia,
no warmth in recollection
his memories are his alone
and he thinks that is

quite sad

A gentle echo in the treble range
of birds that chirp, that wake his drowsy eyes,
Cold moning blows. The rolling greens entice
the journeyman, but seeing, finds it strange-
The sunlight white, and flickers, sixty hertz,
that lights his eyes but scarce refreshes him;
Horizon's edge sees twilight creeping, dim,
Breath held, aware, as though existence girds-
For what, he never knew. He wakes, again,
from out the dream-machine, his lungs still drawn,
And disconnects his brain, and turns to say,
but no-one hears. They slumber, cased in pain,
And he exhales, a sacrifice to dawn,
a whisper in the break of troubled day.