* ~ *

When the clock on the wall tells a different story,
an arm's revolution spent staring outside
(where the leaves on the trees
rustle listless on branches
of bark, rough and dry
as the words in her mouth
when you're left blank and staring, the load that you're bearing
brings tears to your eyes that you try hard to hide:

It shouldn't be this way. It doesn't have to be this way.

Neither empty nor trapped in a cage
(nor free from it), with noise
of the voices of others for company
(filling the silence, she'd rather they shut-),
finding no consolation in
(-up, will she never win-)
or out of solitude
(-? less likely than not.)

She's felt this way before.

You bury it all but somehow
inbetween then and now
nothing's changed.

It scares her to think nothing ever will.

* ~ *

finished: July 19, 2003