Untitled - August 17, 2001

Desolation draws a mark
across the page

There is very little left unsaid,
every last thought
is dragged from the grave,
like a reluctant guest
at a death bed gathering.

Months after things have passed,
they are thrown at you,
like a bucket of ice
to the face.

It's like the shameful events
that have come and gone -
pages fallen from a book
like a stain upon the pristine white.