The You is I

You can criticize the love you’ll never have
Staring at the ghosts of lifetime’s past
Deaf and dumb you cry without a tongue
Holding on to memories burning numb
Forget the guts you scorched with aching arms
The villainous soothing of age thirty-one
But you were seventeen, seventeen years young
When you embraced the ones you should have hung
Like thieves that creep around your skull
Your thoughts unwinding down a corridor
Remember how you laughed at that poor soul
That soul is you with head hung low
In icy winters with no warmth to spare
I stalk fires and still catch you there
A lonesome face with gloomy eyes
It’s a horror tale written in comic disguise
Forgive my blunt effrontery of words
I, too, have done shit that hurts
But I still breathe with life that’s raw
Beauty imagined is beauty drawn
I have one sharp apology to weave
I’ve been deceived, deceiving — and believed!
I’ve hidden fragments of life so sought
Little pieces waxing in my thought
For thirty one is not an age
He’s not some distant prophet, priest nor sage
Unfortunately, he’s something else
The lines I wrote to hide myself…

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