Wednesday, February 16, 2011

...

the muse is dead,
buried, with
that which never dies,

these thought may be old,
the memories frayed,
the hurt remains fresh,

a million miles,
take me no farther,
than the reach of a hand,

grasping,
fondling,
suffocating,

let me shed these here,
now, let me walk,
away into oblivion.

2 comments:

Madhu said...

scared, disappointed and helpless.

Witness said...

longing and lonesome:)