and the distances we keep;
where space is confined
and time is fleeting;
Where a single touch
holds our purpose
leaving us complete;
yet, without discretion
longing for the wasted
energy left behind;
Where purpose, undefined
holds us in it own dimension
and muted cries fall
to the ground undisturbed,
and the carpets hold
more of us than we do
of each other, and the
winters, cruel and as harsh
as the news we hear,
force us as tired actors
to do one more show
for the restless public
who knows nothing
of those unmarked
distances and
unrecorded times;
yet, listens to the
same music only
played differently;
faceless people drive
empty and aimlessly
on unmarked streets and
highways, searching
for the same
purpose as we;
discarded, as do all
who abandon the
fragile existence they
maintain with the
reality of their dreams;
an external curse
worn like some protective
cloak preventing their
Albatross of feelings
from taking them
into a world from which
they see no escape.
September 1983
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