Last night I had my old backpack.
The one with the faulty zipper.
You came for a visit just then,
an unwelcome, beautiful whisper.

I like to think I knew you,
not just the drives and the railways in your brain
that made you what you did every day.

We went through a fake town,
and I couldn't dream my way out.
I think something deeper drove us on,
even though for thousands of daylight hours, I've stopped.

Can't I wake up?
Can't the seams seal shut?
Can't the marrow take back the blood?
We're only strays.
Last edited by Martyr's Prayer at May 19, 2015,