what am i to say?
when your tears are his,
his dreams are dark,
and i am, here, exiled.
the songbird tells of strife,
but sweet harmonies through the bars,
entrance the ear and heart,
almost forgotten now, the woe.
the stars, of course, point backwards,
sacrificing holy rules and codes
merely to get their fix,
before returning to their stations.
sit. silent. feel it. definitely.
i can tell there's something missing,
but as for what? what matters?
and as for how? why bother?
drift, eternal drift, so cruel,
that drags you from the top,
and gags and binds you with every word,
how empowered he must feel.
still, no way out,
but the slow, benign hand,
ticking lonely seconds,
sinister, and dripping with time.