I live in this veritable mansion on earth,
A house that's filled with love,
A taste inside of what I'm worth,
A sense of what I'm made of.
Yet my body lives as damaged goods,
In this damask room.
And I pray for Mary Magdalene
To anoint my feet with her perfume.
It is true I've lived a wayward life,
A hapless weaver at the loom.
I have never saved a single soul,
And my purpose has been swallowed whole,
By the threat of pending doom.
The world it is colored by what we perceive,
And I perceive it ending soon.
Rose-colored glasses are slipping off my nose,
Framed by the tincture of gloom.
My empire is abandoned in droves,
By those who don't find what they need.
By happy cock-eyed optimists,
Who do not care to see me bleed.
Who want the miracle, not the meltdown,
The smile but not the smelter,
The life but not the scent of death
That rains down helter skelter.
They wear their rose tinged glasses well,
They bear the stink of sweet perfume.
They walk away from my decay,
And shrug at the tincture of gloom.
Yet I say that one man's fate surely is the fate of all.
Perhaps my drop from the summit tall,
Reminds them of their own downfall.
Or perhaps I mire myself in loss,
Knowing that life's a coin toss.
Heads I die, tails I suffer on to live another day.
Our fate is predetermined, predestined either way.
I live in this veritable house of mirrors,
Where black humor cripples and the pain of the body sears,
Where I pine alone for all that I have lost through the years.
A penniless weaver, asleep at the loom.
Each thread unravels, the further I travel,
Weighed down by the tincture of gloom.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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