Poem 77

Life is like a leather bound book
which I neither chose to write in or read from.
There was a day when you were a dream distance away from me,
but today you are a distant dream –
an irony I discovered in the tunnels of reality.

Dawn and Dusk entwined as one by fingers of an illusion;
I fought the piercing stares of a waxing moon,
while the clouds tore at my silence
and the stars muffled my screams.
Death at last weaves me to myself.
My hand remained motionless,
the pen scribbled a story;
the story was you –
the other side of me,
my soul.

*Image: Watercolor rendition of a photo found on internet


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