Tuesday, April 16, 2013

The Mists

The light is low
As it was that sleepless morning
But this light is not the Sun
It is my soul.

That gray was the gray of hope
A train rushing toward the station
Toward family, joy, and laughter
This is a fog.

I do not want to hear it
What was once a song to me
Fills me with bitterness
And stilted prayers.

Keep your blessing
Keep your comfort
Do not answer
When you are not asked.

I shed tears for death
For friends departed
And hopes dashed
But not for the truth.

I will do no penance now
Not to please you
To bring myself low
To make you happy.

I am who I was then
Exactly the same
I hope one day your happy lies
Will be lost in the mists.

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