My glass speaks of water yet to be poured.
I lick it in hopes of absent condensation.
It chuckles at it’s hidden pin pricks
It makes me beg for mere sadness.
Cobblestones sting my knees as I pray
And friends and foes alike keep distant.
Others walk in oblivious circles.
The daftest follow pretty phonies
As they take their attention in any way,
Shape, or form they can.

It will not be here that I find water
And there will be no compassion.
He scourged my Bohemia through apathy,
And did it in his own slovenly time.
I sweat to fake it for a small while more,
For I succumbed long ago to lack of
Aspiration. I’m contained and looking
Outward for peace. I can not see
Through an almost opaque film.
Though life exists as I shrivel.

03/30/2005

Posted on 03/30/2005
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