Little Hawk:
"It is a mobius strip of maudlin excess that numbs the mind and petrifies the soul."

Well, I think THIS might deserve that comment a little more...

A Dark Corona

What vision can I hold, when dreams are dark
And chill creeps into soul? How can I see
If future offers reason, or might be
Enough to some image of hope lend spark?
Yet, shall I think that past would not leave mark
Upon a weary soul? Will darkness hide
The scars of heart that to dead dreams are tied?
Can any shroud cover a wound so stark?
My soul in silence dwells: I hear no muse
To offer song, nor to receive my heart.
What passions might I hold, when heart is bound
In cold and silent tomb? Can hope refuse
To fade, when all is grim? How can dream start
When only shadows in the night are found?

When only shadows in the night are found
To fill my dreams, how can I hope to know
A reason to go on? Desire might show
Image to heart, but silence has heart bound
To dark despair: All of delight is ground
Into the dust. Yet, should I try to light
My dreams, when hope brings me such pain? How right
To think of muse, when no replies resound?
Should I care for the past? It matters more
Than I might say: My muse remains a part
Of soul. I cannot longing for muse end.
I do not dare forget her, or ignore
All that was never said: Dream offered art
Far more than I might in my verses send.

Far more than I might in my verses send,
I give concern. I worry still, but fear
Heart cannot hope to hold past muse as dear
As I desire: Regrets darken hope's end.
I wake to find no dawn; Pale stars pretend
To light cold night, but vision cannot tell
Between gray thought, and black. Will my mind dwell
On loss, or hope to future hopes defend?
I care, but cannot alter fact: My dreams
Have little value to my muse. I seek
What will not be, that desires might not fade.
It matters not: The desire I held seems
Beyond all thought. I cannot make muse speak:
No power I control can passions aid.

No power I control can passions aid.
To hold to muse: Heart seeks for voice in vain
Without bright dreams. How can I hope obtain
From silence? Yet, can my desire be made
To change, or bend? Shall I think that heart paid
Such price for transience? I cannot bear
That it is for illusion that I care:
How can I heart's desire for phantoms trade?
Ghosts fill the darkness: Memories now dead,
But free to roam my dreams. I do not fear
What was: Future alone frightens heart's night.
I cannot forget what past words I've said,
Nor regret one concern, or wish, or tear:
Why can I not find muse to bring dream light?

Why can I not find muse to bring dream light
And end this silence? Do I ask for more
Than might be wise? Did I some god ignore,
That Heaven withholds what could make heart right?
What crime condemns me, that I cared? How might
I earn reprieve, or pardon? I regret
Only those words unsaid, that I have let
All hope depart, by not holding muse tight.
All passions pass, but I do not seek grave
For my desires: I prize even the tears
The memory of smile recalls to mind.
Yet, memory alone does not dream save
From bitter night. Should I look to spend years
Waiting for end, with all my visions blind?

Waiting for end with all my visions blind,
Echoes remain, to fill the empty hours
With illusion of life. Does past hold powers
To control dreams and thought, or with hope bind
Dark night to all desires? Can I not find
Some path for future muse to alter fate?
What might my heart resolve, that hope would wait
In silence? Do echoes of muse remind?
The chill seeps in my bones: I ache, to try
To move my heart from past. Nothing remains,
But I am loathe to leave this tear-filled grave.
When shall I forsake dreams, and know hopes die?
How can heart binding burst? Let these tear stains
Be all that I recall, and all dreams save.

Be all that I recall, and all dreams save
From dark concern: I cannot ask for less,
Nor more. I can only concern confess,
That muse matters to heart. Is silence brave,
To keep me blind? Had muse one reason gave
I'd accept fate, but in silence I hear
Only the absence: Hope does not appear,
And all attempts to know have left me knave.
I wish muse only well, but wish she'd say
Some word of what transpired: Must I believe
That all past conversations were but lark?
I cannot forget past, nor future sway,
But present gives me only cause to grieve:
What vision can I hold, when dreams are dark?