I'm made of cobwebs, shaded grays,
echos faded by the murky streetlight;
Festive blobs signal the holidays -
and ricochet off me into the night.
.
A thick, dull fog 'tween me and them,
a brick wall no one can see;
seamless weights in my hem,
and dust inside what used to be me.
.
And then there's you, a year away,
waisted tears, and prayers null;
an end thought for each void day,
a whisper-scratch in my old hull.
.
The words avoid me, skittish things,
like birds that flutter fragile wings;
the right ones are only fledglings,
too young for new beginnings.
.
And I wish that I could care for cold,
worn out flat 'tween mortar and pestle,
a forlorn growth ring in a tree of old,
trapped inside a rotting vessel.
.
.