No exit

Or escape route

No out reached hand

Or phone call

No voice to hear

Or friendly eyes

No bird’s song

Or water to drink

No tip toeing children

Or animals to hold

No parachute

Or banking hours

No love had

Or will

 

The darkest days have arrived

The last sunset given

It is the stars that become dust

In the very land

In which we bury our dead

 

No way out

Or tunnel light

No shelter given

Or photographs taken

No easy transportation

Or lock and key

No article written

Or west side exhibition

No way to hide

Or loss of weight

No sight gains

Or remaining love

No memory served

Or reason

 

The darkest days have arrived

The last sunset given

It is the stars that become dust

In the very land

In which we bury our dead

 

It is at sea

Where we become lost

And it is at the bottom of the sea

Where I am most

 

 

© 2012 David Greg Harth

12.03.05.01:08:19@130BklynNYC