Nobody Home

Posted on 2003-08-03

There are times when no one
remembers
that we exist;
when life shrinks
and is too small for us,
when it is hard to arouse
the blood in our veins every morning.
Days of talking
with our skeleton, folding inward,
and weeping in the dark
over these sad bones,
of wearing our own skin
for a shroud, and telling
life there's nobody home:
come back some other day.

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