we are, somedays, just a poor
fabrication of ourselves –
we are less than reflections
i know its there in the way that you
fling your bangs out from your face
you look at me just below the horizon
of my eyes. i see that you see me,
but i know that you don’t –
you are lost in that forest of the Past
on those darker trails up on the Hills.
you are not coming back to me today.
i will wait for this to pass. where will the
wind take me when i’m gone. where
will i ever find rest from this.
a malady, bold and mulish. i am a
sore brick; hardened, fired by kiln.
and you, a mortar of mayhem
affixed to my four corners and
a ballast, albeit painful, a ballast