Wed, 24 September 2008
In
the still dead of night, a fear takes hold, a
suggestion of giving too much, then being left alone. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. How
many times have you yearned to be bold but
afraid the cord will break and drop you with a moan. In
the dead still of night, a fear takes hold. You
travel to the days when they tried to mold you,
dissatisfied with your natural skin and bond. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. You
relieve the threat of getting ironed into the fold of
a cloth without txture, music, or tone. ]In
the dead still of night, a fear takes hold. Night
after night, the stories are told about
houses burning that you don’t own. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. You
lose sight of the rainbow as the days unfold counting
the minutes you have yet on loan. In
the dead still of night, a fear takes hold. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. |