I sit here yelling at the wall and
expecting a reply,
Nothing more than my own plaintive
cry.
Why is there nothing else out there
but to sign, wait and sleep
depressed.
Only lost in arms of spoken word,
And yet it all draws back to the one
who does not reply.
Avoiding me, Laughing at me,
Keeping me bound.
Always this happens.
Always this sound.
Of whipped hounds and and whispered
promises, made to myself in lieu of
the real you.
Phantasmagoria.
Illusion, delusion I realize this.
And yet I can not help but hope
and equate every touch to memories so
sweet, the few I have magnified by
attraction, dependency with no idea
of reality, a lie to myself and all around.
