My Visitors

Here at the center
Things go slowly.
The crowd moves on
To something lonely,
With movements so bright
They don’t belong in the night.
Every inch a mile
With their feet to defile.
They came and went
Like travelers spent
And spoke to me of mysteries. . .
That the empty road of history
Lives in my heart
Without reason to depart,
As I’m broken and cursed
With no time to rehearse
The end,
So they left me then,
Singing of the day
In such a morbid, atrocious way
That I can never see the sun again
Without their coiling means to repent.
My sparks don’t fly
And I’ll never light up the evening sky
Like they do
With their flashing moves.
I’m lost in the gloom
And searching most desperately
For escape from my doom.


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Filed under poem, poetry, psychosis

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