Meanwhile

I know your pain-it is my own The way it curls up to the pit of you Running the empty veins For the blood that went dry. It speaks to me in a voice Of muteness and numbed flesh, Weighing barnacles of silence On its frail limbs. I answer not to the pain For such surrender would make It roar a lion's strength. Still, it is not my lips That soothe the sleepless hours And not my arms that climb The nightly towers, I am not much missed, yet bargained for, My steps yield not their trodden ways For I have known you in circles Ripple upon ripple, Missing the center stone, Whirling chocolate slices of a darkness That shouts no name of mine. Slowly I bury it into my pockets And walk the lines of others With blinded puddles of eyes.