Poezja

A farce set night
dwindling twilight
how the light has escaped our eyes.
Our fears draw near
inside the whisper
"they're here, they're here"
But we find only ourselves to despise.
Now midnight creeps over
and silent songs haunt her,
for what could, should but not have been
lying, growing old
Nothing to hold
In this lonely bedroom scene.
 
"Come, Comfort"
the cry
low
the sigh
As we close
our lives
to the real.
"Come, Comfort"
Again
our dreamworld of sin
it is then we become as we feel.