by Frank Balara

Created on: July 13, 2008

For Those Who Wait In Silence

Writing, for now, is my lover abroad;
Out of sight, but very much in mind.
I hold it, caress it, and,
Think fondly on our past together:

The short, sunny day trips on autumn weekends,
And the long bitter winters we shared,
Relying on each other to survive,
Plowing through the blinding white,
With nothing but unconditional faith,
That, together, we would somehow find THE END.

I smile and think of Writing's return:

Spring will bloom and, for a short time,
It will be love at first sight again.
By summer she'll quickly grow on me.
But little quirks and idiosyncracies,
Will grow from disagreements into all out war.
We'll go long periods sitting,
On opposite sides of the room,
Never sharing a word.

I sit here now, in my lover's room.
I sigh bitterly as I realize,
It's best she never comes home at all.

End.

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