i would have liked to meet the great dickinson.
no doubt we'd be an awful pair,
both bitter and yet dreaming.
both despondent and yet hopeful.
both completely, utterly mad.
the things she's written,
they give me hope.
because i now realize that i am not the only one suffering through the fog-
the fog brightly-colored with cheap, disposable hues.
however, they dash such hopes as well.
i do not wish to fade away,
remembered as a ghost;
a lost soul
myself in black
and she in white,
both of us
much too tired
to cry by now.
YOU ARE READING
the shepherd's sword
Random[the things we dare not say aloud] the walls have faces, you know. the angels do not.
