2019 VII 27
Your hand reaches out warily,
It searches, trails along the wood;
Your eyes seek stability in here,
Though my heart keeps you trapped, where you once stood.
The pulse is stolen, it's not yours:
Every pencil, table and yourself.
The thousands of clocks measure the infinity,
But it's a bother to see you rot in that self.
I'll watch you like a feeble mouse,
Whilst you write my name, and treat it as a gain,
Treat it like a returning memory - a bliss!
Yet it's forgetful like a single drop of rain.
Then you sit, ponder, ask for answers;
Who you are? And where you come from?
These stolen goods no nothing of that sort,
So don't intone these lullabies to some.
That voice is beautiful, of course, borrowed...
My chords ache, yet you continue to sing
And we become two separate beings...
In this dwelling, we crane and mournfully wilt.