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September 20, 2003

In three days this summer will be gone
like others past, thirty for me, it will end.
A driven wind from the north has turned
all the beautiful light of morning cold.
My fingers barely move over these keys.
The languishing laziness of life is easy
in the cold morning of another day to waste
until one day sparks my interest in life.
Nothing outside in the sparkling, gorgeous
morning dawning light of everyone else
holds much interest for me lately.
The hard newness of loneliness in separation
has become hard to me once again.
These few days until the sun is obscured
by gray and cold wetness aren't enough
to keep me busy and loving and patient
until something else inside of me grows
into another winding longing for more.
A paralyzing fear of the past and disinterest
in the future keeps me just out of reach.
(Inside I'm still screaming
"Please give me a sign, tell me you're alive!")