A Little Longer
A rattling
Thought shifts, writhing,
a berating thorn that's crowned in my mind.
It is pleased with itself, all around,
but it makes me sick. So sick, in fact, that
I am about to lose my only refuge,
and so are we.
They hold the lifeline tight
but I drop mine.
my betrothed spoke loudly,
At Me: I wasn't myself
The only way he could get through
was to show me
our childhood;
to show me
our music box.
For the children of nostalgia
I stay.
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