Only Words

Mine is a life of words, I fear.
Any deeds I’ve lived solely in my head
as I would the lines of this story
I shall never write.
They are threads of worthless language
strung over and over,
woven into the discomfiting comforter
I wear each night, eyes open,
staring into the dark ceiling,
where brightly plays the fantasy journal
of the young, brave, athletic, loving
writer’s days that never were.
Then comes the eye-blink sleep
without dreams and, too soon,
creeping dawn. It drags with it
my hope merely to stand and
sumnambulistically beat my breast
from inside out through another day,
only to live again for those seconds
in which I lie and lie, playing once more
with the words that are my life.

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