Whispers, my friend, are my gift to you;
Non-existent truth that you succumb to
In the hours when the night is dead.
Your eyes open in the dark and you seek
Inner vision, to guage the depth of madness.
And you find nothing, except the nothingness
Of half-burnt souls still living within yours.
You apparate to those younger days,
Yesteryear, like yesterday; bright, happy faces
You sit up and search for the glasses.
Alas! There is none.
You left them on the table,
Like you were,
By the hands - which once needed You.
So you learn to read, eyes closed
Exactly as you have done before.
No comments:
Post a Comment