POOLS OF MYSTERY

POOLS OF MYSTERY

Pools of mystery, they reach out from the deep,
Enter my silent portals of sleep.
Water comes rushing, it gushes and pours,
I drown in the current, swiftly and sure.

Pools of mystery, they know my sad history,
Tears on my pillow, the remnants of woes,
Unfathomable how I made it through those,
They tug at my life boat, they send me slowly reeling,
Like the vertigo that spins the bed beneath the ceiling.
Like a flowering plant, an overgrown wisteria,
It climbs the trellis, this nameless fear, this brutal, cold hysteria.

Pools of vaunted mystery, in puddles at my feet,
Cold and frigid, the glacier, the ice, heralding defeat,
A fatal, final splash,  a most resounding crash,
The cops they come with night sticks and shut down my mirthful bash.
Never one to take a chance, nor with the devil to flirt or dance.
I only party in my dreams, the nightmares into which I dive.
Headfirst like a kamikaze, they make me feel alive,
And sometimes sorrow, sometimes glory, they lurk and stay behind,
Pools of mystery, stone cold history, messing with my mind.

Where are your days of glory, my son,
See what all your sad hubris has wrought.
All in your youth that you worked and you slaved for,
What little peace of mind your currency has bought.
The questions they rise and they torment a brain,
You wonder if you're going insane,
What led you to this stifled life, where once you raised your voice,
To leave you such a wretched soul, lost without a choice.
Was it just a sad, blind game of unrelenting chance.
An overdose of pesticides, that stopped your youthful dance.
Was it some sin from out your past, that left you sinking sure and fast?
Was it predestined in the womb, was there never any wiggle room?

You gaze up at the tall trees, pleading for answers,
While the cells in your substantial nigra perish like a cancer.
Metastatic, evil, the brain death it goes spreading,
Swift as an assassin, intent on your beheading.
I want a scapegoat, want revenge, I want someone to blame,
I'm standing with my notepad, quietly taking names,
In handwriting that I cannot read, sick of playing useless games,
That hold no promise of fruition, nothing but voodoo and intuition,
And lofty calls for my surrender, haughty calls from the depths of my soul.
Emptiness that hearkens and hastily eats me whole.

I fall from off the mountain steep, into the precipice mighty and deep.
Drowning and floundering in the rushing sea of the helpless tears I weep.
Most times sorrow, sometimes glory, they lurk and stay behind,
Pools of mystery, stone cold history, messing with my mind.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED