Warmth unfound in the generous shelter
Of each poor souls that I would call my friend.
I smile and laugh and like a pro pretend,
And ignore the voice, the eddy and the blur.
So kind, akin to nothing, much like her,
In equal parts of sweetness and of dust,
With no sign of spoiling, though I know she must,
In her cot asleep and nevermore to stir.
Ashamed of how I weep in public light.
It's brightness makes me weak, and I collapse.
That I could have a moments grace, perhaps,
Or see the end of this protracted night.
I long for her to carry me downstream,
To join her in some never ending dream.
Read Denial Cycle #4 here
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