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.