Friday, 24 July 2009

An unmarked grave.

I met him in a crowded room;
We shared the same name.
Like two weavers working the same loom
We weaved threads of silken blame.

Her said he was from the future;
Only ten years hence.
His words were like surgeons' finest sutures;
He offered ten for every pence.

I didn't understand his words;
He told of subjects I hadn't tapped.
It's as though I'd never heard
Myself in tones quite like that.

He was just an embellished version of me;
Just me somewhere down the line.
And yet I knew I couldn't see
His convictions as I saw mine.

I didn't know if he meant what he said;
I didn't know if his thoughts were as mine.
And so I strangled him until dead
With a length of old fishing line.

I buried him in an unmarked grave.
I tried to forget what I'd done.
I couldn't see anything, save
The paranoid delusions I'd spun.

I met a man from my past;
His empty words crushed my heart.
In scorn his words cast
Tore me apart.

One night as I lay sleeping
I felt a tightness in my throat.
It seems the young aren't fit for weeping
For we're the ones who've given up their ghosts.

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