It is the dead of the night, as always, always,
For there is no other time that I can seek
To carefully unwrap my guarded soul.
The wind whistles, as if in complete understanding
Of the quiet tempest which shall yet unfold.
I demand no answers, you see.
No shrieks of ‘why me’ to escape this being,
But tears have a mind of their own.
I breathe through choking sobs,
Staring ahead painfully,
As if hoping the vista would gaze back
And save me the bother
Of putting into words those long-buried remnants
Of hope, love...salvation.
Am I dying already?
Or can I still walk on ahead
One step at a time,
Brushing away stray wishes and indulgent dreams,
Towards the inevitable...whatever that might be,
While caring little for those flimsy little things
That we call relationships?
The metaphorical bridges stand burnt,
And I wish I knew how to swim.
But one must learn, mustn’t one?