(Untitled narrative piece)

Existence. It is a relative thing. We live among the rubbles of Space and Time; chained to a weary destiny that yields not answers nor hope. We lie bound to dreams that ought to be, but ne'er are. Solitary attitudes - what are we to do with our lonely shadows that fall on the cracked walls? History, it is come all over again. We sit and ponder the existence to which we are destined. So many questions, so little time... with absolutely no answers. Do we forfeit the game of Life? Pack in our bags and throw away our persistence? Do we yell out loud : "My dream, I was made for thee and now I am come?"
The multitudes of curiosity lie beckoning at my cranial entrance, yet none are invited in. The Muses of Poesy, how often I see them dance before my open gate. How they revel in the Beauty of the world, and woo my Fancy within me. Time is not my master until Poesy runs out; until Fancy goes away; until I am no more.
But e'en then, what shalt become of these words? Will they lie at my feet until I fall asleep? Will they flow to the wind as my ashes in freedom?
...My dream is no more...I am no more...Poesy has bid me farewell...farewell...farewell....

© 1998 Radica