(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
