Birthday Today is the day that I wake and find Another year has slipped through my fingers Another fear buried itself there in the heap of dreams that calls itself pillow This is the year for me This is a tear that slides down my face This is the silence that accompanies such a day such a moment such a fragment Pieces of eight and four are scattered on a wood floor like flowers winding their way down creaking stairs as my feet try to make room so I don't fall hard on my own debris The house is quiet no voices greet me with surprises I look there out the window as the rain falls softly on dry and yellowed grass I want to drink too To open my parched soul to the tears of heaven on my knees begging for violent inspiration praying for love Another day older one more day brings me closer to a mirror that shows the lines of infinity dancing like shadows around gaunt eyes Yes they always said, "she was the haunted hunted kind"...
Syyd Raven's Questions:
Has the reader yet the benefit of experiencing a birthday as just another day?
Can the reader understand that the writer while feeling hopeless, still clings to a small shred of hope?
Does the writer make aware signs of age, in the various stanzas? Thank you,