Fault
Measured words, calm and heartless. Your tone never wavered from flatline apathy. Heatless, heartless, chilled and dead Each syllable a dull thump on the coffin nail And a shovelful of dirt on the mute lid. Reaching back, I can remember the days when Touching my mind was the sole delight of yours. I realize, of course, it's all my fault. The Scythe that severs all is of my own whetting. Do you think back on the days of rose glass and green, when Every moment was a glowing spark of life? I think, and feel, And know what I have crushed beneath my weight of being, flesh too Dense and numb to feel myself, my life, extinguish.
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