I grow so weary going down the same,
Tired trails of my over-rated imagination.
My sensitivity lies bleeding –
On the doorstep of ‘now’,
Crushed by the onrushing egos.
I rest in the stillness of a darkening room,
The night touches me with velvet fingers.
From my off-white room I can see the street,
moving towards the warm fire of the horizon –
As though it were a bright snail.
I try to follow – but can’t!
Cars moving,
People smiling,
Fake faces trying to prove
That they are somehow – worth the effort.
I hold the velvet hand that touches me,
Such comfort in the night!
The off-white rooms begins to melt into darkness,
Drowning the drums of tomorrow,
The night laughs – mockingly,
For it has nothing to lose – except darkness,
Which I shall inherit…….