After years of being a closet writer, my poems started to tell me they wanted to get out more . I have a roving rambling heart myself so I completely understand . Happy travels .

Friday, January 19, 1996


For most of us the night quits here - 
Stops gaming and is tamed to the sound
Of cries who don't find voices near
In an air searching for atmosphere - 
And needs to build some fences down
To reach the hopes stayed underground

But we have never called it day
To dig the dirt from where we lay
And we cannot say it was alive;
Once unearthed is old decay.
So what is it, if not a drive
To bury the poison from our lives?

And once this wicked game is learned
We cannot help but wait to burn
And we won't have to again believe
The promise that won't give us a turn
And for some sad reason we end up relieved
That if Love never comes, it won't have to leave

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