Sunday, August 7, 2011

Poetry, Chains of Dust

Chains of Dust

It is a habit,
nothing more.

a habit,
binding like chains,


dangerous, yet
strangely safe,

 a sweet poison,
no less deadly

for it's comfort,
no less false

for it's

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.


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