The Shadows Of The Room Pool In

Can We Really Choose Anything?' 'maybe. If We Want To Bad Enough.

My "heart". Does That Pitiful Organ Still Represent Anything? It Lies Motionless In My Chest, Pumping No Blood, Serving No Purpose, And Yet My Feelings Still Seem To Originate Inside Its Cold Walls. My Muted Sadness, My Vague Longing, My Rare Flickers Of Joy. They Pool In The Center Of My Chest And Seep Out Of There, Diluted And Faint, But Real.

I Wonder How Well She Sleeps At Night, And What Kind Of Dreams She Has. I Wish I Could Step Into Them Like She Steps Into Mine.

In My Mind I Am Eloquent; I Can Climb Intricate Scaffolds Of Words To Reach The Highest Cathedral Ceilings And Paint My Thoughts. But When I Open My Mouth, Everything Collapses.

We Eat And Sleep And Shuffle Through The Fog, Walking A Marathon With No Finish Line, No Medals, No Cheering.