Sunday, August 7, 2011
Poetry, Chains of Dust
Chains of Dust
It is a habit,
nothing more.
a habit,
binding like chains,
captivating,
crippling,
dangerous, yet
strangely safe,
a sweet poison,
no less deadly
for it's comfort,
no less false
for it's
longevity.
It is a habit,
nothing more,
a catechism
of lies become truth,
cradling you
over the chasm,
weak as a baby
at it's soft,
threatening promises.
It is a habit,
and only you
cannot see
the chains
are made not of steel,
but of fog,
waiting for the morning sun
that only you
can unleash.
=====================
The picture is of a set of keys my son got a while back, part of a large collection of keys he has. Yoy can click on it for a larger version.
Tom
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