Just Poetry

the past used to haunt me
like cold fingers
gripping my sleeve
and tracing
the tear tracks
on my cheeks

Stuck
in this circle
this endless
cycle
of temporary
relief

no winged creatures
appeared to whisk me
away
no burst of light
dawned
to burn away the haze

it was merely
the constant
apathy
never forward
always still
while fleets
of people
ran past

the flowers
in my garden
refused to bloom
Sometimes I'd try
to force the petals
open
but they'd only
fall
apart

and somewhere
in the mess
there was me
me, who kept looking
out
me, who kept
running
in my
circle
watching crowds
go by

and all
that kept me
busy
was to write
and write and write
till all the
crumpled poems
and tear-stained
pages
pointed in
to a little boys heart

-there
my reflection
appeared.

Still
No winged creatures
came
to set
me free

just poetry.