The silence rang in my ears
and the cold day wrapped its
long bony fingers around me
and stowed me in its pocket, safe
and ironically, warm.
I wasn't surprised to find there was nothing
there left for me,
no plaque bearing my name
no wind ridden statue
But nontheless, dissappointed
in myself and my invisible amdirers who
had probably worn away, long ago
after I forgot to return their mail and
instead counted days on my fingers
and weighed them, meticulously,
an old miser and his gold.
So this is what life is like
dusted off and taken from the shelf,
such painstaking simplicity.
Then the pain lost its elegance,
my heart lay,
an ugly relic on the ground.