This is the only place where
I sleep with the window closed.

I find myself rusty eyed
In the small hours, writing, and
Wonder where the last few years went.

Short stanzas about loneliness
Form a familiar pattern, and
I hide under the covers out of
What was once habit.

Once I could get the words down
Before my eyelids fell,
But now it is a battle
I look like losing, so
The pen goes down instead.

02/04/2007

Posted on 04/02/2007
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