Monday, October 25, 2010


You give me a cold resting place
Up on a frost bitten moor
With nothing but the dead grass
Like the hair of a thousand corpses peeking out from under the snow.
You give me a frail resting place
upon this fevered bed.
You are gone
and the ice splinters of my breath hang and stare at me from the ceiling
There is nothing for me here.
And I know somewhere in the back of your head you have put me to rest
In a sleep which makes death seem a lullaby
You said you would never think of me
Did you really mean never, dearest?
For the nights turn still colder and even the day's seem widowed in flat gray.
But no . . . . . . I remember the way you turned from me.
Your never was complete.

You won't come back.

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