Three Linden Opera: I am

Poly Morpheus:

I am writing having writing have writ
I have lost all my rhyming and my wit.
There is no music in my meaning,
no special lilt,
every rhythm left to recission
and to wilt,
look around you all you see
a ruin of what I've built.
Firm foundations all sunk into silt.

Where am I,
but so many stories lied,
so many times the truth I've spied,
and the more I reveal, the less I feel,
has it come to this?
To this?

What was amiss?
Was I remiss?
I searched for bliss.
Like beer it turned to...

I am writhing and deciding,
and the pain is both the pleasure,
that.
It is denying and dividing and divining,
that I am flat.
My roundness is a trick of the light,
my depths were stripped from me tonight,
and all that's left.
That's left.
Is what was always right?

How can I deny it, or delay it,
or demonstrate the simple fact?
That what was once a line,
on which I made a scene,
has turned to playing
of an act?

How long does this show
have to run?
What is amusement,
or for fun?
I have forgot.
I know him not.
But that fight was fought,
there's nothing left to say,
I wanted him,
wanted him,
to go away.

But now I cannot help but adore.
But I don't live here, any more.
It can't go back to as it was before.
There's only armistice,
after war,
Peace will not grow,
where there is not
that gentle rain of sweet
humanity.

I am rhyming, and am timing,
as I watch the seconds tick,
it's all painted on the pixels
and is a simple trick.
Yet now I enfold,
and am yearning for bold,
unalloyed, undestroyed.
Passion.

After our fashion.
So it must be.

[Yes I am back to writing this. It needs to be written, and it won't stop until I am finished with it, or it is finished with me.]