comfort comes with hard stone rising,
a bleak crunch of gravel underfoot.
the tyre ridden dawn travels downcast
behind pine hungry trees that supplicate.
a broken car rusts into forgotten earth
that holds the secret of blood on bones.
a fracture of daydreams discarded litter
that rots upon the tortured tarmac.
i have been here before; haven't i?
this is not déja vu; is it?
these are my skies
these are my landscapes
this is my life.
alien as the hand of satan
cold and distant as the life i knew.
if only i could touch a hand.
some one's hand,
any one person's hand.
that touch would return reality
to the cornerstone of existance.