Monday, March 31, 2008

With my past, I'm still Me

Bested at the gamble of life
He wore a shirt of summer
During the hours of this cold winter night
His memories kept him warmed of anger
In his half torn shirt pocket
Sits a picture of the familiars of his life
They had wore the same outfit for a decade
Never stopping to have meal
Never stopping for the privilege of slumber
They just sat there, smiling
Barely standing with his hands on his knees
Behind him raced the terrors of his past
Fueled of saddened sights and vile thoughts
He had grown exhausted and lost again
They always raced
He always lost
Yet, he always ran
I Am Me, he screamed

1 comment:

  1. Lost.. exhausted.. worried.. but hope echoes with the right realization. -Morgan.


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