It is the darkness of a view
Never enjoyed: long journeys
Suffered in silence and stress,
Everything looking like the same
Nothing in dipped halogen glare.

It is the shifting of too many hours
From never forged memories
To endless, needless preparation,
Poured into frustration rather than fun,
Building hatred out of blind love.

It is the poem I was never
Able to write, even when my words
Finally began to betray my
Treacherous heart. It was always
About me and never you;
The fantasy of the destination,
Rather than the reality of
Where I was.

It is festering, fermenting,
Brewing bitterness inside me from
Thoughts I spent too many years
Determinedly damming behind
The wall I built between us.

If I break that barrier, will
My silent screams given voice
Finally wash away the house
We built on what turned out to be
Sand?

10/07/2016

Posted on 11/03/2016
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