Saturday, November 28, 2009

Sick

What haven't I done to make me ashamed
What opportunity for regret have I passed without siezing
Wooden gates growing heavier
Steel hinges turning louder
Grass growing past comfort
Dead statuary neglected

How much of your failing is mine?
How many of your faults are grown on my tree, my sister?

Where you need strong arms you fall on shadows
Your bed of rest has forgotten the shape of your tired body


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