the written word
is more than
a complacent idea

we become meaningless
sometimes you become nothing
in my eyes
torn and shredded figure, you

sometimes I think
almost nothing

It is as if the world
can pass some people right on by

holy of holies don't exist where you are
sometimes I wonder what could
and me in my torn dress

what is it here
gnarled flesh
suppositions generated and gathered
whose fingers do you want to hold anyway not mine

sprinkles of twisted yesterdays remind me
of nothing but confusion

today I see you as a sad reminder

no lady in waiting