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.
Copyright © Witty Fay | Year Posted 2014
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