Wednesday, 1 June 2011

Waypoint


This is the land of the lonely
Where time is not a transient thing,
It’s carved and stacked into walls
Covered with lists of what might have been.

Our last resort is every breath
Every look like the twist of a knife,
Our worst is what you’d call your best
And whatever it is we’re living it isn’t life.

It’s not the stars by which we set our course
But nothing given substance by our thoughts,
And the night is not dark when the sun sets
Just full of words that haven’t been spoken yet.

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