Tuesday, June 1, 2010

The place only I can go.

When those people hurt me I don't want them to know.
But it affects me...
I shrink from their speeches which are like prodding fingers.
I try to block out their mocking words.
I become aloof on the outside;
On the inside I've run away.
I've run away from reality to a place only I can go.
It's quiet here. I can lean against time & think for a while.
My exterior is frozen. My interior is alive.
You can't follow me here. No one can.
I pity those cruel people. Their perception of beauty is clouded
They don't have a place like mine.
They could though.
But they're too busy... Busy in their miserable world.

{Photo: Anna Brønsted of Our Broken Garden. Taken by: Gina Zacharias.}

1 comment:

Silhouettes of a secret. A story told over a cuppa. Or perhaps just sitting on that stone bench, basking in the moonlight... and not saying anything at all.

("I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks." -Shakespeare, Twelfth Night)