2 Dec 2008




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.



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