2nd. person singular

You are a question

I would love to answer.
My own special guilt..
You are shaking my hands,
shaking reality,
collapsing down,
my most cherished dream.

You are the past I will never again visit.
You are the locked door,
the rusty key.

You are refusal and frustration,
rage against the machine.
Race against time,

drawing my Saturnal thoughts:

the way paved to today,
to now or never.

The road I travelled contentedly
without even realizing it was you
who drew the subtle signs, the unavoiding glimpses,
of a lost horizon.

My salty idea,
my fragrant one day yellow rose.
The child I once knew that was me when nobody
had taught me how to kneel down.

The window to some artificial light,
the keyhole to a hidden secret,
a latch,
a belt,
a chastity belt which guarded me for my lord.


Anne Murphy Littlestone


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