Terminal
I linger long after you've gone
and watch the coming of the dawn,
with crusted eyes from little sleep,
a cross to bear, a wound too deep
for me to cauterize or stitch,
an all-consuming, scratchless itch
that aggravates me to the core
and cruelly whispers nevermore.
A locket in my pocket and
a tear-stained kerchief in my hand,
emblems of a stillborn romance,
listlessly I change my stance
and wander mindlessly, my eyes
fixed firmly on the ground, the skies
are cold, the wind is gray,
I never will forgive this day.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2009
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