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,

Syyd Raven