The hollow centre

Friends, I slightly burn inside as savage guts keep me from sleep and pull me from tomorrow.

My eyes are dark beneath and mouth is sore, dry, silent.

What is painful more than pain's bones and buckles?

It is that silence of which I write to try and form the words,

That destroyer of all imagination's worlds.

I hide these thoughts in pebble pots where wishes lie,

until they may sprout dreams and fortunes owed or not.

Let me lie down amongst these concerns and sleep for a while,

underlain by memory's leaves and time's rot 

I try to renew myself

each ring grows anew around me 

age seems to expand me

but the hollow centre grows

Danger doesn't act as quick as you'd think

but moves so slowly it is not caught

as it drags me down to places without air

and deficit of love

I forget to connect with myself

no one answers, do I call?

23 Sept 2014 LEF