Life is a library, but
Too many of our pages are blank,
Our words transparent
Forced into dogeared corners.
Not spineless per se,
But visiting a chiropractor regularly.  
Covering our selves in judgments
Worn with both shame and pride.
We tire of the climb and the thinning air
We bookmark the times we falter
And when we shield our eyes from the glare.
Our minds are marked by the epithets
Gifted unto us by others.  
Some arrows fly true to the bone
Others are way off the mark.
And when our final pages have been read,
The book loaned out or discarded
All that remains of us is said
In a line on granite epitaph
The truth of the dead forever guarded.

Stranger there in the shadow
I am watching you, waiting
Night will belong to me
Intimate nightmares to visit
Soon we dance in our minds
Taking you to dark places unknown
Ecstacy of my forbidden touch
Reacting to something, sinister

She looked at me with hope in her eyes,
and she saw my pain, the black of the skies.
the beginning of the end, the end of a night,
I close my eyes but I can still see light.

As it comes to an end, the pain fizzles away,
the end of an era, the start of a day.
this day ain't the same, its more like night,
the black of the skies, the absence of light.

The distortion of time, the eyes of the clock,
with each and every second my brain starts to rot.

The perfect thought in an in-perfect world.

So who is this man?
He stands here alone
At the corner of the room
Looking out the window
Wishing for yesterday

Is he someone I know?
Because I knew happiness
Of days of forgotten love
Arm in arm in green meadows
Kissing amongst the buttercups
Dreaming of tomorrow

Now I don't know me
I am not who I once was
Is there anyone who can tell me?
How this predicament came to be?
For I cry inside alone
Fearing about today


Copyright Chris Smith 2014