Stacking
I
am back to where I started
a
poor player with his boxes, his hands
building,
stacking, covering the memory of blood
on
stone, the final stand of some
broken
ancient traveler
I
am back in time from dreaming
I
will never sleep in someone's eyes
nor
take the flight of perfect love
that
waits in other rooms
nor
ride the horse's wing
My
future is a cursed thing
that
flings me like a father
back
to this time and wounded time again
I
may remember you, a promise
on
the other side, or not
my
name lost between indifferent spaces
of
your changing heart
But
I cannot falter after this
I
will stack the boxes
and
sleep inside a wall
my
own heart now a tomb
holding
memories that were never true
and
gathering the dust of wishes.
