II-VIII In a Basement With Bertha Mason

My joy has been a chosen grace,

sculpted by God, Her marks I trace.

What's the point of sacrifice for a future's hollow?

Told not to dwell in yesterdays we borrow.

What to do in a false tomorrow,

where truth hides what brings sorrow?

Is this real on Earth, or but my mind's conceit?

A captive of mortal plight, ambitions in retreat.

Moved to this world, my soul not endless,

repeating to all, my message relentless.

Is this misery? Now, Solomon and I share its weight,

I've wept like a man, writing follies innate.

Obsessed with conquests, yet vigor eludes,

caught in the chase, in disquietude.