adventures in dysthymia

Friday, January 21, 2005


It could have been my idea but more likely
I read it somewhere and forgot except
in my dreams. It rode through there
on a nightmare, this idea, calling

the names of lost children it read
from the sides of milk cartons. They could not
answer. Their eyes were covered with duct tape,
their mouths full of the lies I told.

Some day, all will be changed. Some day,
I’ll leave here and walk along your highway,
weighted down with someone else’s ideas.
Can I sell them as my own? Would you buy

the empty cartons, the stolen smiles, and take
them home for adoption? No matter,
no matter. The lost remain lost until
they find themselves, over morning’s oatmeal.

It could have been, should have been,
mine, shining through a six-thirty window.
Pebbles, lined up by moonlight, marked
that path. Have you seen it?

Stephen Brooke ©2005

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