lithedark

Now that I have left my place,
Ventured into distant lands,
Disappeared without a trace,
Swallowed by the empty sands.

I find myself quite happy here,
A here so far from there,
But when old ghosts begin to near,
I find myself quite short of air.

Friends of old are foes reborn,
And so they have their place,
Ever hidden, scorn and thorn,
And yet they seem to know my face.

This entry was posted on Thursday, June 19th, 2008 at 3:22 am and is filed under life, poetry, rhyming, self. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.