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At Sixes and Sevens

I am tired of the ghosts
that live inside my head–
the ones that whisper
in voices that belong
to those I will not see again;

tired of the stop-and-go words
that stand like sentinels
guarding the pathway
to your stone heart.

A storm gathers slowly
in the Sunday sky
like a sermon.

I have blood on my hands,
I ask you,
but there is no absolution
in the denials you offer.

I wander through the underground
caverns of my guilt
until I have haunted
all the tender places of my past mistakes;
until I am bruised beyond repair.

Your sudden silence
makes me wonder
if I have buried
you beneath too many confessions.

Afraid you will refuse
to hold me in the safe circle
of your unknown heart,

I am lost
and inconsolable.

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