soullessly slips from one heart, drowned in salt and ire.
A cold and closed wooden womb, walls white,
painted cloister, through which so many lives have passed,
and many more will come.
I rent this place to hide from winds of loneliness and terror,
the buffeting truth that home has slipped from me,
is slipping away, there is no place that calls me its own.
This heart is wrenched from me, as oft as I looked up and feel,
your eyes are empty of all compassion,
and callously you cut me from your life,
as a fisher might pull a leech,
and cast it back,
into the open water.
To sink
from sight
without
a trace
into the
black
of
I.
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