In your dwelling with the departed
Your thorns still get a rise out of my veins
Piercing me in my steps forward
Dragging me out of my slumber.
Perhaps it was arrogant to claim I'd buried you.
Though such admissions yield no honor
When we're standing face to face.
Why are we here?
Am I haunted by my trespasses?
Flinching out of familiar desperation?
Am I running from the yoke of the good?
Or am I pinned under the yoke of perception?
Are the machinations of the Divine at work?
Or is it our distance and my duress
That has manifested your mirage?
I have abandoned much of your ideal
Excluding the peace I found in the nights we shared.
I reckon you don't care at all anymore.
Harboring distaste for my memory if anything.
So then, again, why are we here?
Until I find out,
I want you to know I'm thankful.
Not only for the time and care you gave
But for your persistence in my subconcious.
Your presence points to unsettled dirt
And I look forward to letting you go.