Wog

Silence is a word both meaningless and cruel, a coveted abstraction, nothing more
Calm is the exception. Turbulence is the rule. Why’d she bring the Devil to my door?

She’s near, but far away. She doesn’t want to stay here anymore

I still hear her laughing at that stupid trick, when I’d pretend the door had hit my face
Restless wiggles, girlish giggles, she’s waiting for old St. Nick to bring her ribbons, plastic jewels, and lace

Feels so much like a play, a show called “Yesterday”, put on by ghosts
And viewed through memory’s mist, of hands held, and foreheads kissed, things I miss the most

No one told me I’d wind up in jail like this, a prisoner of my second thoughts and shame
Kindly words meant to encourage are golden and warm like piss. We can’t control where sorrow lays the blame

So is she warm and dry? Does she laugh, or does she cry when she thinks of home
Is she out under the moon, or in some loud smokey room? With those “friends” or all alone?

Black predictions, no more fiction, only terrible fact
She’s pleading, screaming. Am I dreaming? Is she coming back?

So now my heart is beating in my throat again. My blood is racing through my useless limbs
Is she sorry? I’m so worried! Did somebody take her in? Is this the just reward for all my sins?

They say, “Don’t blame yourself.” If not me, well then who else should I condemn?
Tonight out under the moon, I’ll tell myself that soon she’ll be home again

Silence is a myth, a soothing thought, and that’s all. Where is she tonight?