Monday, September 8, 2008

Ballad.

So

hard
to think
to know
that all I right
is boring now
not even real
I've bored until
I no longer feel for
anything more
than
a blanket
of those nights
when I leave the window wide
in case the hurt crawls back
inside
or comes
perched upon my window sill
and sings to me a melody
of sorrowful change
or
in sodden distress
a memory breathes upon the cold glass
that I might press my finger
gently upon it
and draw in the mist
the jewels of last night
and yesterday
which cling with graphic desperation
outside this haven
or Hell
whichever you may think it be
the truth you see
is barely there
a ghost which flees
a haunted man
a heart which is
just home to me
and a sea
in which
I swim alone
until upon the site
of sure
I land
and grasp
in Hope
your open
hand.

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