Desdemona
you knew it, you sibyl… yet you listen to yourself when it’s always too late
and now you’re sitting there, holding on to words and wind, with nothing as a result
a silver pendant, a question mark, dangles from your slim neck… an emblem of an existence
will we lie down on doubt? will we ever hear the truth?
Deep down you know, my sweet sibylline Desdemona, but those windy words confused you, and now you’re swinging like a scale looking for balance…
“it will come… the day will come when we’ll hear the truth… it will come…”
and in the meanwhile other words hurt you, denting that shell of illusion you made yourself, that armor around a truth you sole know, about you, that you don’t want to say out loud… so my dear Desdemona keep drinking those little doses of poison, ’till you’re inured, and finally you’ll live with your truth and reality…
My dear Desdemona keep singing those words you feel so yours, keep singing
“Is there a place more lonely, than I feel within?”