TRAGIC Poem: Imagine If, by Clem Vahe

Imagination is Everything.
It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.
-Albert Einstein

He is lonely, hopelessly harsh–
a late summer’s bright afternoon dismal in his eyes
as he drifts through L.A.,
driving his scarred Mustang convertible quick and slow.

Haunted by visceral gestures still intact,
he trembles; their palpable parallels
had swelled and emerged into waves,
breaking inside their own turbulent ocean.
Not for everyone is this torrid love,
enchanted by poets and composers.

This persistent survivor deftly conjures up
a genuine memory from his ethereal pocketful–
importing his lady’s smile from raw dreams;
a last touch of her delicate neck he can still feel.

Music springs from the radio; persistent sensuous blues
transcending the void, arching his heart.
“The remedy for what ails you,” he laughs sarcastically.

As early evening is overcome by desolate darkness,
the lock to the front door clinks its opening sounds.

She is at least home;
saturated with scornful self pity,
she only notices herself.

Trailing accessories–their mirth, camaraderie,
his lips leaning in to loosen hers,
the blue green swirl and a pinpoint of
yellow daisies in his eyes staring
helplessly through her–flash,
before falling here,
a time-worn diatribe,
and there as rancid vehemence.

Their years together no longer shelter
the disconcerting whispers of denied truths.
She saunters toward a good-night,
oblivious, hardened to all the ravaged promises.

The sounds of placid running water
resonate behind the usual closed doors.
A cough or two silences talk;
and the night settles ominously
around their tortuous familiarity.

Together they are worlds and adventures apart;
conscious sadness heightened
by love’s erosion.
Its easiness is a simple motion away.

The obscure darkness of their elusive happiness
covers them like a tomb; nothing is peaceful
like the promise of death before dawn.

She comes home
too many times later,
still dazed, dragging herself;
her pitchfork troubles have revealed
too many fatalities for her soul to bear.
The house is dark with a vacant loss.
Stale perfume from discarded battles
hangs shamefully as she confronts
a different emptiness.

A fixed startled fear debilitates her scream;
it touches down a gnats-breath away,
exploding in fireworks,
encircling the distant bathroom–
thoughts of life already abandoned–
his only body gone dead.