Reaching...We Are Where We Are

By Alethia Rose Braganza

We stand in the middle.

The No-man’s-land.

With nothing, nothing more than grey weather,

Reaching for crimson

And sometimes longing for the blues

That is our purgatory

And for some, Hell.

A few may thrive while the rest are scratching their throats for a plan .

We stand in the middle, the dark grey no-man’s-land.

Oh, how glorious, we praise,

How easy the days

When we know deep down, we are falling

Falling without an end, failing.

Yet we still cry, happy songs in the name of alacrity

But we know too, how cheap our thought.

But our boast aloud.

Are you lying to yourself?

I’ll answer that,

Yes, a simple yes.

Every day is Sabbat for you,

And every path lush with sweet Alyssums.

You praise the Alyssums,

You praise their maker

Do you ever bend down and trace the vein?

Or the Pain that grew these

Would you ever,

Ever grow them yourself

Selfish praise.

The no-man’s land is your comfort.

There is no pain

And there will be no Joy

Reaching for crimson and sometimes

Never for the blues

Crimson is never to be found.

By Alethia Rose Braganza