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…….

 

~ Sandi Burton