adventures in dysthymia

Saturday, August 13, 2005


All of yesterday’s
unfulfilled prophecies
turned up at my door.

Let them knock. Let them ring.

I’m not opening up.
Tomorrow’s news has gone to bed
And I must do the same.

Let them cry, remember me?

Memory is such
a fragile box. It cracks, it leaks
its dark pools of denial.

Let them flow away, fading

into imagination’s
desert lands. There they shall
become the drink of prophets.

Stephen Brooke ©2005

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