Sunday, January 23, 2005

Thoughts are poured concrete
as I go about my day:
she leaves careless footprints
in drying pavement --
I have it all --
I am rich, sitting in a palace
made of the finest driftwood,
spoiled in my soul
because God gave me
a second glance.

I won't touch her
with my mind.
I hate the way
her gaze lingers
in another man's eye --

As the sludge flows like blood
down streets packed with narrow time
I'll look over my shoulder
and croak at last:
I never knew
what it was to want,
so I filled buckets
overflowing
and whispered secrets
in foreign tongues.
I never was able to surface.
Please --
clutch my hair
and demand to hear
that you feel the truth howling
from behind my eyes.
But you will only smile,
(as she always does)
and remind me
drowned words
are never heard.

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