i sit alone and pray for my time to come
trying to replace fact with fantasy
and wishing i could open that door
it always remains locked like my hope-lined box
but sometimes I turn the key just a bit
like the way you turn me from grey to black
and i realize "you" are no one I yet know
so i can stay right here and pray to who?
until the fact becomes fantasy
and my time has come

12/02/2003

Author's Note: Took form from one of John Bouchard's poems - "Nothing New".

Posted on 12/02/2003
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