Sleepwalking

Vigorously flow the streams of rust and salt
    when you laid your hands upon me and mine.
    splaid out before you, aghast and sundered
    amidst that dancing blade of bitterness
    you humbly wielded each unplanned attack.

    Face of mine own Confessor tried to balk
    idly while voices lost around pantomime
    of smoke-filled rooms and mirrors enumbered.
    The only foreigner was my own self.
    I close my eyes; I should have known better.
   
    What difference will a day or two make
    to count back the number of the mistakes
    where words are lost in imagination
    and what should be rage brings only musings
    and disappointment, maybe resentment.

    Revisit the past in the morrow tide.
    come inside and give everything you are
    or be sanctified in misgiving id.
    Dispel notions of possibility
    For this is the way things are meant to be.

Blogged with the Flock Browser