Pointing its bony, accusatory finger At the empty bed, Thrusting last night's shabby dance card Under my wrinkling nose, Dragging me by the arm into some narrow crawlspace Where it can dissect my every dignity Free from honest daylight.
It does not want to sit in tribunal And hear evidence of how courteous I can be to love, Given the proper opportunity. It wants to watch me put a sharp knife into the sink Absentmindedly Just the way I was always scolding someone else for doing.
It likes to point out how many nights it's been Since so-and-so called;
Tauntingly reminisce about every misstep And describe With rosy detail All that my graceless hands have squandered.
Oh, but it is wrong and I will beat it yet, For what loss gave to me I won't forget! And it may call me fool and failure till its face is red But I will not be tempted to tell it what you said, Or offer up some shred of proof to show what I am worth - More precious is our secret now than any words on earth.
As sacred to a nomad are the relics of his home, So I cherish my conviction to be steadfast and alone. ~CRH 2012
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