We’re closed things,
in the midst of noise,
only silence rings.
And it is our ring,
married to a widow,
she hovers over us – protective,
haunting all those who attempt,
forcing them to flee,
and leave us alone,
we’re no home.
I see your palm ever stretched towards me,
but I am struggling to rise to worth,
in recognition that I am of merit,
how strange I repel myself,
in turn reject you,
before you have the chance to see me.
I’m happy to remain a waft,
a passing zephyr of musk and wood,
that you can never wash away,
that you’d obsess over to stay,
I know, we’re a selfish lot,
apparently distant and alone,
longing, but such a despot.