I am a still wonder that runs deep,
a sky of demise in grey eyes
that shine of a sad London spring,
sitting quietly on the edge of the Thames,
legs hanging loose over chill frozen waters.
In red wine sleepy early morn slumber,
I wrestle with my sheets, a wintry solitude,
working to cover my bare feet while people
move about in their comings and goings to and fro.
The drawn window is my television to the world,
a simple channel to the outside
that I can comfortably watch while the hours
pass before me like countless friends I've lost.
My falling tears are tragic tears on the soul
that bleed every ounce of joy;
a woman scorned is a boy torn
about which emotion could really be up.
In the twinkling electro-glow of night,
I am alive - my waking life a dark
afterthought of what could have been if only
the phone had rung when I was weak and needing
and could have possible been discovered, rediscovered,
and recovered like a lost ship at sea,
finally finding out who it was that comprises me.
Early June 2006