Asylum

I stand in the shadow of a towering goodbye
with a sin in my head I cultivated a fire;
the pills, dated for convenience
in the cabinet holed for a heart
stretch out in their foil covered graves,
all the days of the week,
all the dose the same.

In the frost reflected glass
I see your fragile outline fading,
I sit in a circle of one
and to yesterdays same crowd
announce my faults and failings;
I listen to the mocking silence,
the phone reluctant to ring and
in the pennyless minute
I’ll hold my own hand
for as long as I can
until I slip into the calming black
that comes to cover
all remembered things.

© D. Archer. December 2012