Sunday, June 9, 2013

On Graves and Fallen Limbs


Overnight meetings with shadows 
On graves and fallen limbs...
I was once the outer fog walking through
Now I am just the fog of every other passing through

Passing by... 

(Bye bye...)

I know no one feels me...
Not to the touch, no more significant sound in the room
The music plays in the hall, under floor boards 
(Check for the heart, the old style turn table)
The scent we're always driven too 
The youngest memories 
Even the minor details...
All my books still writing on the self. 

And I've been dead for years. 

What a fool to drift like this, over time
Someone's always drifting from me...  
As I try to steer a whirlwind of broken dreams
Over the roof to free me from failure over-again   

To free me from disease.    

Now I am just the fog of every other passing through

Passing by... 

I know no one feels me...

But I know what it means to love 

... 

A l l   o f   U s  
T h a t   N e v e r   W e r e 

G i v e n  

S h a d o w s 

O n   G r a v e s   a n d   F a l l e n   L i m b s . . .



( B y e   B y e . . .) 


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