Son, sprawled out, torpid on the sofa,
Eyes glazed in gossamer film,
Do you now bemoan your beautiful living?
Do you now despise your excessive pondering?
Have you finally discovered the despairing truth
That humans are not made to feel,
To love, to know too much,
That they are nothing but sponges, soaking up
The chirps of avian lullabies,
The chills of crystalline blue coasts,
The tender touch of a lovers tongue,
Amid some sultry summer reverie?
Can you feel your mind dampening, the swelling,
The beginnings of that terrifying transformation to nightmare?
Do you feel week at the knees
Or heavy in the gut?
Or is the pain closer your eyes,
From which, like leaky faucets,
Drips the splendorous surfeit
Of your now chaotic dream?
Tell me, soul,
Was it worth dying young?
Was it best to drown yourself in youthful infatuations,
Rather than to live long and mediocre,
Tormented gradually by latent lusts?
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