Monday, June 6, 2011


Waiting, night will come,
dreams draw closer,
then comes the sun,
Staring, a pastime new to her.
Fully aware of every breath.
The pencil dulls with every scratch.

Knocks on the door,
Quiet she’ll be,
A peak through the hole,
From above, it is he

Same words as the day before.
No need to answer the door.
One by one she picks up debris.
No need to vacuum,
it’s something to do.

A numbed mind,
blank space.
Could this be you?

Peer through the window,
every sound, there’s a hope.
A change may be coming,
for now time she will cope.

Still the pencil dulls with every forced stroke.
Write she must do,
down all this dense pain,
For if she does not,
likely she go insane.

Pace, pace dust and old lace,
scattered beads on the carpet,
each one out of place.

Rays of light,
she’s blinded, can’t see.
Stands way of the door,
hoping for more,
scans streets for the trees.
There’s few among-st the concrete and cars.

Blessed be the night,
for soon there’ll be stars.
But asleep she will be,
for the night is her refuge.
Escapes into dreams,
for seclusion is what she faces each day.

She runs from the sun,
each awakening ray.
She breaks the silence,
for she speaks out loud,
Hardly hears her own words,
to somber to shout.

Yes, she knows aloneness all
and simply to well,
dead flattened, sedated,
a tolerable hell.

Don’t read these words,
for pity you’ll feel.
For this she can’t stand,
too much this is real.

What comes after each word she will write,
another lonely step and just one more bite?

No need to sit,
when dinners alone.
Stand by the fridge,
bite down on a stone.

Taste is but common,
no flavors of lust.
Cabinets bare,
empty shelves full of dust.

She implores don’t read on,
for darkness spreads thick.
Who could live in a box,
without getting sick?

There’s still traces of hope,
soon the debris will be gone.
As she picks each piece up,
to make shorter days long.

Do you know loneliness?
Do you really know of this?
Do you look in the mirror,
and nothing looks back,
But desperate blank eyes,
an expression that’s flat?
Pale faced and haunted,
too real the reflection she sees.
Too wide a mirror,
too much space that’s empty.

She talks to this image,
there’s no one else there,
then silenced,
she stiffens,
and wordlessly stares.

Are those her eyes?
Could she stare them away?
Into a bright light,
of each coming day?

The pencil continues to dull,
in a book she writes in.
Soon filled be the pages,
and a new,
She’ll begin.

Lara Nelson (Rainseed) 2007  (housing)

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