I have heard you whisper in your dreams,
of death, destruction and desire. I have fondled your eyelids, searching, seen how they are pleading,
wishing. In hope, we are, but you are betrayed. Your whisper is a little louder than
coarse, your voice always sounding like dripping wood, splinters caught by fire.
Cracking, cracking your shell open like the evil the world whispers
about, the desolate gripping fear of abandonment. And I guess this is
what we share. You have no shell, no gateway to a deeper persona or
pure mind. In your eyes I have seen the shores of
sirens, the gaping necks of dead horses, crumbled buildings and
ruinous mornings. I've cried for you, before you. Never with you.
Would the say that your tears are like sand
too? Would they ever know, if you fell now? Come to rest in a bed you
only possess because sin was made for
you. No questions. Nobody asking what you were made for, what you
want, what you dream of. Only my light feet in the dark, making out for
your sleeping face, checking your breathing. Only me, with the fear at
heart, checking whether you are fast asleep. Only my shadow, as I
retreat from your soul ever again, never stepping on the
flowers. Never rippling the waters, never touching the
stretches of sand. Staying behind, as silently goes. Being
the last person here.
They ask not what took you, where you went,
if you found anything. They ask not of you to
make sure you are alive. And they have never asked why you must leave,
appear so empty, so profoundly blank. Your mind is a dark recess,
you tell me. Your thoughts do not exist, your world mute. Why
must they pay you so little respect and attention?
You cannot wonder what they meant or not, cannot feel the
touch they wouldn't or couldn't give. Your inner is protected by no
walls, you have no inner. Your eyes, as striking as they may be, are a
sky devoid of nurture. The face I see turned towards me does
not doubt, does not linger and does not question.
When you walk, the path laid before you slowly disappears. Bound to your fingers and limbs, the hasty
moving shade of grey, dissipating like dust and fog, only to return
again. And when you speak, your voice is like burning wood.
Your only trail here is a smoldering