tiring days, restless nights
but we don’t look back, do we?
oh! to have oblivion again
not this symphony of pleasure and pain
a cesspit, a man in the shadow
a storm and a whimper
a disaster past, another brewing
terrible, impulsive, brave; silent, wise, a fool
we move away
and onward we go
who knows where
but I wish we didn’t.
the soft morning light seems harsh
the wisftulness from March
a devious turn on the road
and we didn’t see how we both fell
too frightened to look up
but we might have caught each other.
it is too overbearing to think of
there is lump somewhere in my throat
I hate it.
dear poets of yore,
I can’t commit it to word as sweetly
but I know what you mean now
you talked of the bittersweet felony
someone stealing your treasured senses
unlocking a dreaded chest
someone committing a crime
I was the victim
I was the perpetrator
I was the punished
I was the punishment.
they leave – must they leave?
it is humbling; they can’t bear my presence
but tell me, what am I to do
if I can’t bear it either?