Tuesday, March 8, 2011



The Asking
And the receipts we keep

Fleeting hands of a wooden God
Counts the hours till a readied time
Where dementia will cease, the suffering will end

Could there be fragments left
Of that person I knew long before
Someplace behind the diabolical and the discontent
Could that person still breathe inside?
Or are these thoughts but deluded dreams,

Are your eyes even salient anymore?
I know they tear in joy
When your victim begs for you to stop
But these tears you share are nothing
But an anticipatory salivating ploy
I cycle this progression more times than I should
Begging, seeking, praying I find the version I once knew
I struggle, I fight, yet to forget, I too must overlook all the cries

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