Wallace Park - abandoned

I’ve’ forgotten how stones get tossed

After thrashing my mind around secluded ponds, just to gaze

Into the unknown of your eyes.

It’s a lifestyle that growing accustomed to becomes barbaric,

And yet my daily rituals are repeated like a stumble upon a record

Player.

It’s just dust “I tell myself” in a whisper, for onlookers dare to judge

A person talking alone.

As if nightmares

Aren’t enough,

The pure control you have over me

Is astonishing.

I’ve missed coming here to dabble with words

Because murdering your unspeakable truths upon paper,

Is better than dying alone

For people just to wonder

Why?