I strung myself along
dark precipitation streets,
flecked with the feckless,
the wretched,
the reckless.
The starry eyed denial
that could not tell the difference
between the rain
and the tears on her cheeks.
I took the night in silence.
The sound of yesterday’s rage
still ringing in my ears.
I was a child of violence.
I was born brave,
but I was raised on fear.
I had to learn to be quiet;
for years I took comfort in my own voice.
It let me know I was alive,
that I still had a say,
that I still had a choice.
But my choices were terrible.
Every day brought calamity’s name.
Until life was unbearable
and I couldn’t live
with the guilt
and the shame.
I was an anesthetist.
I put myself down.
Deep under the drugs,
just look at me now.
Love and a gun,
far away from the crowd,
with the wretched and reckless
I’ve been known to get out.
On nights when it’s raining,
especially dark
and uninvitingly cold.
I stroll on the pavement
by myself
all alone.
With my head full of memories.
My tattered old soul,
just looking for something
I don’t have anymore.
Degenerate buildings,
orphaned alleyways yawn,
full of refuse and rejects;
like my heart
and the reason
I keep moving on.
There’s no filling this void
left by starvation’s thrall,
but here in the rain,
in the dark,
in this city,
it doesn’t matter at all.
HG – 2017
