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 gain
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