It's nice to have someone to talk to--

like a crystal prism world

refracting rainbow visions to the


grey in every day

and way,

stillness sets over spring

and it might as well

be winter.

Longer days,

shorter nights,

less words,

or none at all,

the ability to care

wearing thin,

and forlorn cries

into the night


and dying out:

these are the things

I have come to know,



rebuilt in my mind,

using my heart

as the eraser,

using my dreams

as the chissle,

and I am drowned

in the days that were

and are to come

and might,

might as well not be.

Still, it's nice to have someone to talk to.