Triasha Monda
Prufrock stands on the deck of a tumbling ship to receive guests who have not come. A scholar whose taste was broad, a shabby poet with a score of sonnets, or the violinist with a limb of infirmity who arose in him memories of the pleasantest kind. Until he had met savage solitude under the moon, in the barbarian fields of America. Weary the mother who bears, one who has eyes like drenched Rubies, so large that Ganges seems to have brimmed in them and flowed perpetually. And so he stands in an Uranium suite, in some tenuous hopes of Gloria or so he called her in the sonnets, until pestered by a sudden abyss of revelation. He is the kind built to feel himself forever and ever alone. The wayfarers lost and found. the moon rose and sank. the lover loved and went. And so in borrowed words he writes meanings too vast for his own comprehension: Love must be reasons why lovers die. Is love the reason why mourners cry? A secret silence of despair travels furtively across, he who was once all, a lover, a friend, a fiend, a muse, a child Hears it not now. For now, his perennial misery seeks wanton fullness, he flushes down the wine and wassail; as he has supped full with his sorrows.
Reader, I who stand in the reverberate hills fear his nature, so full of kindness.
His lips incarnadine, it sickens me to see fertile tears roll down the damask cheek.
For how deep damnation befell him! Quick! Quit my sight- the slaughterous unrestraint of urban loneliness; that is the colour of the night he sees. But God, if he must love somebody, let him love himself.
For with a passing look, I see him sequestered in his tattered room, grinning triumphantly;
for he has known grief like no other- lived, laughed, dined with it.
Disturbing! a familiar sight, every time we have been together, every time apart. Reader, do you seem him too, like I do?
Look; with a piercing gaze down your deep heart’s core To many, a madman. To many, a martyr for art. As the night is prying on our last moments of sanity, I bid leave And when one long night has been slept by all, He will have been stilled at last.