adventures in dysthymia

Sunday, April 10, 2005


It requires a fine balance,
this being half-in-love.
We teeter on the uncomfortable
knife edge of maybe
until we must fall one way
or the other, in or out.

Whichever it may be,
it will hurt when we land.

I have built wings of paper,
longer each day. Once, I thought
they would let me fly away,
glide to new skies, set me
on firm ground. Too late.
They have grown unwieldy –

too long, too heavy.
I can only fall the harder.

Stephen Brooke ©2005

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