II-XII In a Basement With Bertha Mason

Could it ever be too late for me to forsake where I dwell?

Paradise shines bright, and spring’s beauty casts its spell.

Then summer arrives, not with the desert’s fierce heat,

but with splendid vistas, distractions complete.

Souls gather and cheer, believing light makes them whole,

feeding their minds, nourishing their soul.

Is the dream as it is because dreamers conceive?

Yet I dream of a paradise beneath, where pure spirits weave.

No matriarchs addicted to their endless sway,

chattering of trifles, claiming they hold sway again.

In summer’s embrace, I long to return to you,

to lose myself in a hallucination true.

In the frail shelter, fragile yet bold,

withstanding storms, and the soul’s tales untold.

In the endless night, I live stories anew,

grief once molded words, now cold night inspires too.

Sadness shaped my words for long,

Now it’s the night and chill that make my heart’s song.