Monday, November 07, 2005


An attack. Gentle at first
Heart-shaped memories
Hammer their way home
Animated and ashen faced
I sit with you on the boulevard
Sheltered from the March rain
By the striped awning
Viewing the world through
A sheet of clear cellophane
You and our history are the only
Two things that are keeping me
From falling, falling, falling
Over the edge. Pictures
– distorted and confused
Float through my head. Dead
Hands lie. Voices cry

Carried by the wind. And my only refuge
Is you and our shared history
And trepidation turns my mind
Into a battlefield, from which bloodied
And broken soldiers flee
From you and from me
I still look like the girl you knew
In my short skirt and my opaque tights
Still pure, still untouchable
My face, a blank unreadable page

But this is an illusion you have created
I played no part in the myths that envelop me


Post a Comment

<< Home