Journal Entry 8/26

“In the echo of your passing there is a slight whisper, like the wind in the trees or the rustle of a silken hem.

It teases the edges of my brain, brushing me with the cold subtle fingertips of emotion until I shiver like an autumn tree.

Trespassing in to the sanctity of my silent oasis, pushing against the walls of my thoughts until my ears are ringing with the pressure.

I find no solace in solitude.

A poet is a slave to the pen and all the glories it could relinquish to the proper hand, but mine is a sword that pricks me with apathy and writes my tears in words of blood… I suppose you could call me a masochistic writer.

A trail of the fallen lay scattered behind me in  broken notebooks, those unsung triumphs  never fleshed in ink… Those meatless skeletons, bleached white with age. They mutter with unrest as I lay sleepless in the night, humming Patsy Cline into the careless shadows.

One day at a time… One day at a time…”

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