Poems: 300608
Robert Morpheal, Robert Ezergailis, Morphealism
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Patch it up
and it all falls apart.
You pick up the pieces,
time and again.
Nothing really mends
the way that it did.
The only measure of anything
tends to be the dollars
that you do not have.
Every variation of interest
has become nothing more
than return on investment,
and you still have nothing
to invest.
300608B
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The only bright thing you see
is the sun in the sky.
You think you are out
of the woods now,
but all that that really means
is that you are lost
among the shadows.
300608C
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You always gave your beauty
to the ones you came to hate.
There was nothing you could do,
but add a seal upon your fate.
The wounded grow in numbers
each calling out your name.
No matter how you chance to do it,
you know it all ends up the same.
Everything they ever gave to you,
ends up something more to lose.
No more than another bloody rag
tied to any stick you choose.
We have seen it too many times,
that nothing really sets us free.
They would forever make us let go
but they never let us be.
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