Friday, 7 June 2013

Tired Gamble

In the gamble of everyday
Between what is lost and what is left
I was washed with your flame
Summoned by your voice
And taken by your hunger

But now your words are a trickle
From a broken ceiling.

I was woven
In your story
Lonely as a room
Empty as a house
Made into a home, and
Now I’m a shore
Where the waves only recede.

I’m tired of writing you
Like a road
That goes nowhere

 I’m weakened by singing
You like a song
That you can’t hear.

1 comment:

Amna Siddiqui said...

Simple, and beautiful.