Your contempt descends on me
like the hand of pain from a blacker past,
a cleft in time I'd rather forget,
an ugliness I haven't run away from yet
By now I should have cycled through you
like the rest of the brutes and cowards
An investment of a couple of hours,
I fear, turned into years
and now I'm stuck here,
an empty old beast
as uncomfortable with your silence
as with your breath against my hollow chest,
beaten by my happiness
Forgive me my unrest
I'm getting too old for this

©2001