Wednesday, May 11, 2005


May 10, 2005

A fantasy like honey,
sugary and viscous;
it goes well with my tea.
I'd rather enjoy the sweetness it brings
than let it go and drink
the pure, bitter brew,
until I find another way
to make this cup palatable.

An apathy not unlike
the typhoon which must have
swept through my apartment,
leaving chaos in its wake...
I'd sooner lay amid the wreckage, sleeping,
than open space for thought
as I mindlessly scrub dirty dishes;
fold laundry which obscures the floor.

A despair which leaves me
barely breathing,
nursing ulcers,
praying that the sun would set,
then praying it would rise again;
for day is far too taxing;
night is but a threat
to my sanity.

A sadness which promises to drown
the simple joy I find at better moments
in life,
in love,
in poetry and all things
beautiful; all things true.
It permeates my dreams
as much and often as you.

This grief is so pervasive...
A parasite to which I cling
as desperately as it holds
to me.

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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