Spectre of Presence
I did not bid you come
Nor will I call again
The door to freedom
Is the privacy of pain.
So what stirs me awake
In dead sweat of night
What convulsions shake
My memory from flight?
These walls cannot prevent
Images repeating
The predator do not relent
Me, starkly fleeting.
You come and go at will
From nightime to day
On streets or on window sill
I cannot turn away.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2009
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