This wine is sour

There is loneliness in this room,
a sinking feeling of drowning
in a bottomless pool of ice water.
Still, I speak to you
in a voice filled with a
shiver of doubt.
I know you hear me, though
you are not really there,
just your shell, an aging
skin encasing your flesh.
“How did we ever arrive here?“
A sigh ripples the morbidity
of the moment,
a whispered breath moving
the useless lint filled air.
“Did life pass us by or did we leave it behind?“
Your lips do not speak and
I do not know the answer.
Our time is locked in the
chains of indifference,
the tireless agitation
of night and day,
our shadows falling
behind us, flat, lifeless.
“Tell me how you feel, please!“
It is a moot question,
where there was light,
the spark has been extinguished.
The passion now soot,
the ashes of love’s fire
doused with complacency.
“This wine is sour, don’t you think?”
I hear no response, for your tongue
is clothed in the darkness
of your guarded thoughts.
It is folly, no grape fills our glass,
only the sour bitter root
of our future,  a toast of hemlock
to all that we were or could have been.

Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour

This day of limits

A Moment of Passion - graphic art by Donald Harbour

We don’t talk much.
The hours, days, weeks,
Time speaks for us.
Stitches in the fabric
Woven by indifference.
Though we have loved,
The weight of life,
Bears the burden now.
This waltz we dance,
Where flesh never touches,
Where the heart’s feet feel not
The pieces of shattered shards.
Were we really only reflections
Or did we just exist, together?
You will frame your answer
But there is no sense to the words.
There is complaint in the passion,
That wheedling, nagging, binding,
Coldness where once was warmth.
The chemistry of age
Gave us this day of limits.
And, we know not where or why,
We wandered into it, together.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour