deepundergroundpoetry.com

Barren Ridge

\
I traipse the hall, fingers trace wall
Behind my booted tread.
Where shadows morn the day unborn,
Hold silence in its stead.
Where voices, sere, still linger here,
Echoes from a time past�
Of laughter lost, and the true cost
Of things to darkness cast.

The heart still beats, if incomplete.
A murmur mocks the pace.
My march towards Death, I count each breath
One closer to his face,
Who passes by sharing not why
The withholding of touch.
Bids me move on, through life withdrawn,
Already dead as such.

I close my eyes, but no surprise,
The visions never change.
All life a dream, so it would seem,
I pass through it, estranged.
Time not well spent, there is no vent
To bleed off this unease.
Or stake to trust, wings wiped of dust,
The truth of my disease.

So' greet the door, in need of more...
Some chance to be of use.
The barren ridge my sacrilege,
I honor the abuse.
With calloused palm, and sweat the balm
Alone that grants me sleep,
Is the price paid, through dreams unmade,
Never once thought too steep.