A Mango a Day

Discerning the disappearance of devious delights,
Divided into discoveries distributed away from future delay.
Does it suffice to disavow the disturbances that should doubtfully be destroyed?
Disparate and detached:
Despite assurances of those spiteful dealings denounced,
It is with good discipline to deem the defiance once displayed as but a distraught derailment.
Defined to be forgotten,
Delicately lost in Time.

If Philomela could sing, would she tell of her injustices?
What, then, would be the value of her song,
serving only to embody the brutality she sustained?

How fearsome it is to be voiceless, even before her flight;
Painting but a bleak landscape of departed prospects.
Is this what drove the abominable, kindled by depraved hunger for retribution?

The unspeakable occurs, preceded by apprehension
whose effect was not strong enough to prevent ignition.
An atrocity traded for another until only futility itself remained:

And what of Titus Andronicus? Wherein mirrored horrors were celebrated,
amalgamated into one of history’s magnum opi.
Lavinia’s fate engraved by the sins of others, a powerless prisoner of circumstance.

Unlike her counterpart, Philomela arose.
Alas-
Saved by the celestial in a flurry of sympathy,
The nightingale is set free.
Time has escaped its feathered grasp,
Longing for her song no more.

Drifting into sleep, the scars wash away
Or temporarily fade as the realm of dream
-unforgiving towards those who would underestimate-
takes control of its jurisdiction.

Obtuse yet enticingly forbearing,
The taunts of promised restfulness are overshadowed by
the fortuitous design that reminds us
We may be but punished once again
For that which we would give all to forget.

Too far distracted by the patterns on the walls,
The apricot streams of light pour onto them through the blinds
Foreshadowing the night that is rushing towards.
The artistry from the ambient sounds floats above our ears;

Time would not stop for us,
Not even after our observed incapability
Our lack of consideration towards its unforgiving, unrelenting cautionary tale.
A product of an ironic displacement,
Once again we feel the pangs of misconception
Relentlessly tear apart all composure.

If only I would have believed–
Perhaps if you may have agreed,
On the pillars with which we could have rescued ourselves.
Would we then still be able to hear the music?
We beg of Apollo to share his gift
Long enough for us to regain our direction
And temporarily escape from the emptiness that entices the cynicism we breed.

Until then the tragedy remains,
And the deterioration of reason is quick to consume.
At last we are forced to face the blaring irony:
Just how much of ourselves are we willing to sacrifice
In the desperate attempt to grasp onto the happiness we once knew?