(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
Sounds like my life.
It’s an empty feeling.
Exactly. Empty and loneliness.
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.