(Originally written January, 1997 – Owen)
It’s cold and lonely in this house
Although it shouldn’t be
You’re here, although a chasm grows
And grows, twixt you and me
A chasm born of silences
When words should have been said
A fissure made of promises
That evanesced instead
But lies cannot rebuild it
Cannot fix the things we broke
The fading fire dies
Our late-lost dreams
Go up
In smoke
To share is human:
Sounds like my life.
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It’s an empty feeling.
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Exactly. Empty and loneliness.
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That chasm is too dark, light fades away and the fire does die out; We ourselves put it out, we need a little air to breathe after all.
The poem is beautiful. Thanks.
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