Marco Di Caprio

The rain consumes the air, the fog hangs low,
I sit and watch my life dissolve in thought;
a hollow current pulls with undertow
and leaves me drifting, purposeless, to naught.

A Beatles record slowly turns and burns,
its sound unfolds in images that crawl,
then flashes into light, and nothing returns;
the world moves on and does not hear my call.

My childhood slips, and I barely grasp its shape;
alone I played, alone I spoke to air,
and now grown old I find no clean escape.
I still whisper the same childish words to nobody.
A desert made of dust and broken stone
has buried me in empty, futile thought.

My house is cold, abandoned and alone.
The rain outside is all the peace I’ve got.
The Sun is worse. It tears me from the night
that fits my soul and mirrors what I am;
I am the dark, the vampire, gutted light,
that feeds on its own dwindling, fading flame.

I fight the law that pulls all things apart,
the slow fading that no hand can stop,
the drift of memory, the cooling heart,
the way that even love begins to drop.

Yet somewhere past the fear of fading light
I reach for joy, for stillness and for peace,
for a life that breathes beyond the restless night,
for a quiet place where all the warring cease.
The music rocks me gently out of time
and pulls me toward a place I cannot name;

my soul in shadow finds a sweeter clime,
those tender arms that hold me are the same
as arms that hold a child against the dark.
And there, at last, I rest beside that spark.