Hobbies - Poetry - Anonn
back to Poems...

 

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I Am Alive...

            I am alive.

     

    I blink,
    I breathe,
    I bitch,
    I itch,
            I live.

    I see,
    I sleep,
    I snap,
    I nap,
            I live.

    I go,
    I grow,
    I grip,
    I rip,
            I live.

    I fix,
    I feed,
    I frot,
    I rot,
            I live.

     

            I am dead.

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In Another World...

    In another world
            - we met,

    In another time
            - we kissed,

    In another life
            - we loved.

    In this world,
    In this time,
    In this life,
            - we did not.

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At Times...

    at times -
            the verse dries out,
            the rhyme locks the gates to its music,
            and fierce passion suffocates in the iron grip of a silken Platonic veil...



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As When...

    As when the sun did hide itself
            to never shine again,
    As when the childhood's innocence
            by cruelty was slain,
    As when the hunted, bleeding fox
            awaits the deadly blow,
    As when you went and said goodbye
            to one who loved you so...

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Lines...

    Did you ever look at your smile in a mirror? Didn't the mirror get out of its icy coolness, reach out with two hands, grab your body and kiss your lips till its glossy surface cracked with pain?

    I would have sent you flowers - but one doesn't send flowers to a flower. I would have sent you jewels - but one doesn't send jewels to a jewel. So I send you a golden earring and a poem. One to wear and maybe forget. One to burn and maybe remember.

    Something like a life,
    Something like a death,
    Something like a love...

    Those eyes, those twin mountain lakes whirling, twirling, storming in a caleidoscope of blue, green, grey, tempting, calling to an everlasting fall into their cool infinite depth... Those eyes - why did you always hide them?

    Those lips, this red hot lava hell guarding the entrance to the world of no return, to the world of burning love and icy death. Those lips - who will be the lucky one to be tortured by their touch?

    Didn't you notice the way the snowy mountain peaks started melting away the minute a shy little smile for an immesurable tiny little moment lighted your face?...

    I dare not close my eyes, I dare not think my thoughts, I dare not dream my dreams... I dare not wake up and find you do not exist.

    And the roaring flame in the tormented soul could not be extinguished by the salty raindrops of the clouded eyes.

                    ***

    Don't laugh, please don't laugh at the ridiculous sound of these crazy lines. They are just the last breath of a tired, burning, dying match, that thought itself a volcano.

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Let...

    Let me share
    In your pain,
    Let your tear
    Be my rain,
    Let your grief
    Break my heart,
    Let my death
    Do us part.

    Let my joy
    Be your day,
    Let your bliss
    Trail my pray,
    Let your smile
    Cleave my heart,
    Let my death
    Do us part.

    Let the dawn
    Chase your night,
    Let the morn
    Wed your light,
    Let the eve
    Burn my heart,
    Let my death
    Do us part.

    Pray you sleep
    And forget,
    Pray you dream
    No regret,
    Pray you lose
    My freak heart,
    Pray my death
    Do us part.

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1944... Normandy...

    to heroes...

    A grizzly day has dawned upon the beach,
    The iron sun about to wear his crown
    Forgets to blink old mists way out of reach
    As thousands mouths pour hell's desires down.

    My house a box, half inch grey painted steel,
    Thick cordite smell masks sweating stink of fear,
    Tight fisted mouths old books of prayers peel...
    I grip my gun, I lose my only tear.

    A falling door... a water fist drives in,
    I push away through sunset colored waves,
    A fire's trace... a thud... a stream so thin...
    My aquarelle paints rolling water graves.

    Oh mother dear, I wish you had not cried,
    Oh lover sweet, I loved you till I died.

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1943... Bassarabia...

    to my father...

    A weary guard, a skinny snapping dog,
    Weak heaving grunts ride hammers' endless pound
    As shapeless stones asleep in muddy ground
    Break pebble thin, to greeting morning fog.

    An old man falls... a muscle clothed bone
    Leaps to his due... a second's down... a third...
    His blood shot eyes denying thankful word
    The youth breaks stone, then stone, then stone, then stone...

    The camp's commander watches drunken eyed
    His strangling hand attacks the bottle's red
    Then vomiting his rage upon the bed
    He bellows till his under's at his side.

    You son of dog, you listen or you're dead,
    This dirty jid shall get my slice of bread.

    *

    to my father, the unsung hero of those he saved in that terrible work camp, taking over the work of every fallen one, until even the camp's commander was so impressed that he ordered his own food to be given to that jid...

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Execution...

    Not many crimes retained.
    Among the few mentioned there was mad love,
    Insane to a degree of blasphemy.

    God - did you envy my love for this woman
    And decided to punish my irreverence by seeding her despise,
    By forcing her to forget dreams of tomorrow
    And choose reality of yesterday?

    Did my pledge of eternal loyalty
    Bother your eternal plans?
    I doubt it, God isn't so petty.
    The crime though was retained,
    The court decided. Guilty.
    Verdict - capital punishment. No right for appeal.

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Tiger...

    to my puppy...

    Tiger,
    Mon ami, mon frère,
    Pour toi une prière
    De larmes amères
    Sur ton bout de terre.

    Tiger,
    Les anges te réclament
    Pour q'ta petite âme
    Tout le ciel enflamme
    Avec joie et charme.

    Tiger,
    Prend soin de ma mère,
    Cher maman - amère
    Ma vie éphémère,
    A bientôt, j'espère.

    Tiger,
    Joie et peine font sœurs
    Dans mon triste cœur,
    Un si grand bonheur,
    Une immense douleur.

    Tiger,
    Je garde pour toujours
    Ta gaieté, l'amour
    Dans tes tristes yeux, pour
    Te revoir un jour...

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Tizza...

    to my puppy...

    Doggy, doggy, doggy, dog,
    Gone to lands hind silver fog,
    Gone to meet your brother sweet,
    Lying at my mother's feet,
    In the gardens east of eden
    Which to me are still forbidden,
    Say hello to those I miss,
    Take with you my love and kiss,
    And tell uncle God today
    That for you and them I pray.

    Doggy, doggy, doggy, dog,
    Saw this entry in His log:
    (welcome transcript) Hi there fun
    Hold your yapping minutes one
    Glad to see you coming home
    Bring some life under my dome
    Choose a place, my left, my right...
    Hey... that's MY throne, off... you plight!

    (mumbling) ...Headache... have to clone
    This here dog phenomenon...

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Letter To death

    Dear death,

    Please forgive my not using capitals for your name,
    I don't respect you, thus this small token of disrespect.
    I say forgive me just because I am polite, not because I mean it.
    I actually like the idea of decapitating you, haha.
    Donít frown, oh, please don't frown,
    It doesn't become you, you petty thief,
    You are always in such a good mood, why should you frown all of a sudden
    Because of some paper written words
    By a paper poet
    Snubbing his nose at you?
    After all, you know you always win this game,
    Dirty and sold up front, true,
    But what do you care, you were always a dirty player.

    I keep wondering if you finished your college cum laude,
    Bet you cheated there as well,
    And I am a bit surprised how did your master allow you to graduate?
    Are you so good that you succeeded to cheat him as well
    And while he was happily reading your fantasized reports
    You snubbed him the way I snub you and did it your way?
    Hey, I didn't mean to sound funny but I did,
    Do you hum it the way ol' blue eyes Frankie did it?

    Ha, I found your secret, you know?
    You simply read too many fashion magazines
    And decided elegance is your way.
    You wish to look always fresh
    The newest look, the latest cry,
    And you found a way, you dress yourself in human bodies...
    Always fresh a human body, always refreshingly different,
    You stalk your victim, learn its ways, learn how to poison it
    And then you sneak into its body
    Like the parasite you are
    Taking over little by little its functions, its life, its glow,
    And for eternal moments you revel in your exploits in front of your anonymous
    Renegade celestial audience,
    Till finally you all get bored,
    And you drop the body emptied of its essence into decay
    And move to your new dress, your next body.

    Oh, what an exhilarating life you must be living,
    Though funny to talk to you about life,
    The joy of eternal change, eternally renewable fashion,
    And as you walk on the coffin shaped podium
    Beaming at the glorious words people and priests and composers sing to you
    You bow in that beautiful Narcissistic way of yours,
    Add a few more thousands of tears to your unique collection
    And you move on.

    Sometimes you are impatient,
    How unbecoming for a divine creature such as you,
    I guess, after all, you are only death,
    You have your flaws, no creation is perfect
    As the creator knows.
    I know, in my own petty way I am a creator myself.
    Then, at your moments of crazed indecision
    You go by the thousands,
    Trying body after body looking for the flavor of the day
    Dressing and discarding whatever is not ŗ la mode
    The beauty of the corpses littering your wake food for your desires of grandeur
    And you don't calm down until you tried them all
    When
    Tired and disgusted you go to sleep in that dreamless land of yours.

    Et voilŗ,
    You remembered to visit me again,
    Hey, thought you have forgotten me already.
    But I didn't forget you, I remember the several times you visited me
    In different guises
    And please excuse me my disapproving of your taste in garments
    I know it will drive you mad and I am glad for it.
    When you take babies, lovers, mothers, men of virtue,
    And you hang them in your closet for future use
    Waiting for them to ripen to your size for a long time,
    Rows and rows of them,
    Some forgotten, some discarded after a second thought,
    Some never to be used even, just the heedlessness of your spoiled brat ways...

    And I cannot but think, actually remind myself -
    death is a despicable bastard, a spoiled brat,
    And the only thing it doesn't like is people looking it straight in the eyes.
    There were many, I know, we humans are a stubborn race, you know.
    Well, add one more to the list.

    By the way, no need to write back,
    I know where to find you when I need you.

    Me.

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mimiagatha... sic

    playing acrostic games with my "literary" name in my friend Billie's contest

    mind if my idylls are glass
    and tomorrows hail amass?
    might ink's mist
    iamb and gist
    anchored torments heal?... alas...

    morning shiver's plowing slowly mid of valley's humming grass,
    innocent beneath her beauty clothes a smile the sleeping lass,
    "must i wear my skin tomorrow?" she has asked with dying sun,
    "i will wear my ever sorrow..." i have rhymed a wish undone,
    and as clouds were much discreetly painting canopies about
    garnished with erupting marbles scaring way the crawling drought
    all we've left was body's demons raving madly out of grasp
    tearing paths inside her beauty with a mindless screaming rasp,
    hell has taken hold of reason... and when heaven's bliss set in
    art made way to tender whispers, gods made way to sacred sin...

    morning,
    insanity
    mauls impassioned, always
    growling adoration, the heart
    adust...

    magic...
    in the aftermath of forest fires
    mascara melts,
    incertitudes creep in,
    ache grows as
    glow dulls
    and when the alarm clock rings the morning
    the terrible pangs of waking up
    hale reality in
    and you cry...

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Love Me Tender

    a tribute to Elvis in my friend Billie's contest

    Kiss me tender,
    Kiss me sweet,
    Let the snowbells grow
    Weaving carpets to your feet,
    Yes, I love you so.

    Kiss me tender,
    Kiss me true,
    Sing sweet robinís trill,
    I will join you mornings through,
    Yes, I always will.

    Kiss me tender,
    Kiss me long,
    Cupidís broken dart
    Waits inside my praying song,
    Yes, weíll never part.

    Kiss me tender,
    Kiss me dear,
    Take my humble rhyme
    Pay me with your green of tear,
    Yes, till end of time.

    Elvis, friend, your years were few
    Yet, your musicís glow
    Rhymes my whisperīs... ďI love you,
    Girl, youíll never know.Ē

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Womanhood

    You're no fairy, you're a woman.
    Listen...

    So you're no pretty face
    On a glossy surface
    With that sleek fashioned hair
    And an engineered stare
    Acting mock-up surprise
    In strange violet eyes
    With a diamond mine
    Down a smooth cleavage line...

    So you're no summer dream
    Greasy overnight cream
    Don't work wonders for you
    Nor does cucumber stew
    And the wasp of the past
    Has decayed with a blast
    Driving wolfs seeking prey
    Look for glossier lay...

    So you're way past your prime
    Scarred by scavenging time
    As you ripped at your seams
    Birthing lives into screams
    When the toddlers your breast
    Reaved with animal zest
    And the pain you denied
    With such fierceness and pride...

    So what? You're no fairy, you're a woman.
    Let me tell you something...

    Be your choice for a heel
    A stiletto of steel
    And the pants down your bum
    Stained with coke or with rum
    Be your song three keys off
    As your listeners scoff
    And the breasts down your waist
    Mock the virtues of chaste,

    Be your drink mellow beer
    As you burp and you cheer
    While your rough finger tips
    Tear the night time to strips
    And your heart rough and wild
    Since inside you the child
    Fearless mighty and proud
    Still alive rages loud.

    Because you're no fairy, you are a woman.
    And you know what?

    In your wrinkle of skin
    Hides your power unseen,
    In the weary regard
    Glows your yesterday's shard
    In the thickness of girth
    Lives your moment of birth.

    You are no fairy.
    You are a proud woman.

    *

    Polk salad Annie
    Curves you have uncanny
    If an eyebrow lifts in awe
    Wiggle back your fanny...

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Versi Simplissimi...

    This debate
            may be above
            hate and love.

    Those who hate
            love... above
    They may love
            hate... debate

    Or perhaps
            above the hate
    They prefer
            to love debate

    While they do
            debate the love
    Letting linger
            hate above

    In this world of
            love and hate
    There's a rhyme
            above debate

    Let us keep above
            the love
    And debate...
            just hate.

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Letting You Go

    to my puppy...

    It took me long to sit down and write it,
    This,
    This poem, pain, howl... you name it.
    I played delay games hesitating between names,
    Between Your Beautiful Eyes and Toy and Tribute
    and Murder, Planned and My Friend, Gone and You...
    Finally I had to sit down,
    Choose the title, call back the unending howl, pain, poem,
    and write it.
    The untold untellable story of Toy.
    My dog.
    Gone. Dead. Today. At my murderous hand.

    Oh, the beauty of those deep brown sugar eyes,
    The smirk in that quashed muzzle, the huge paws,
    the knots in that long hair hanging from your ears,
    the knots in my throat right now wishing it was I not you
    lying there cold, rigid, unseeing. Dead.
    The little ribbon I tied from time to time to your forehead,
    You looked like a clown... so beautiful.

    Sure I remember.
    When you arrived like a mad cyclone from the depths of a horror story
    running through the house like a pack of mad wolves
    chewing to death everything that didnít move
    licking to death everything that did
    peeing and shitting with joyful glory all over the carpets
    and bed sheets and all around the newspapers I laid down for you
    never on them... making mush of me already then
    and I fell in love with you and now you are gone.

    Once in your life, only once, you growled
    and you were so embarrassed and so ashamed at the sound
    that you never did it again. Love, only love, this is all you knew to give
    and you gave and you gave and you gave so much of it.
    Always alongside me, with me,
    in the bed, in the bathroom, in the car, at friends,
    you demanded your place in my life and you got it,
    half of the place and all of my life,
    sneaking with you into shops, cinemas, restaurants
    where you were fast to hide underneath the table
    waiting for me to share with you half of my hamburger, half of my chips,
    my spaghetti, my ice cream, my pizza, the cream and the cakes.
    Always thanking me. With love. Endless love. And tail wags.

    So elegant,
    folding your leash in four symmetrical parts
    picking it up as the symbol of your liberty
    and waiting at the door... OK, letís go together... you said.

    Time. Heart. Sickness. Still dragging along with me. Everywhere.
    Slowly. Unrelenting. Happily. Slowly. Slower.

    Our last night together.
    Weak, hardly able to pick up your body,
    two weeks your stomach got nothing but a few pills,
    some water. You were still smiling. You were in pain but didnít tell.
    But I knew. Your murder was planned for the following day
    so I refused to come home, I refused to let you go, but I did.
    You still wagged weakly your tail, unable to get up.
    You licked my hand. You rubbed your head against my knee
    wishing to leave something with me, your smell,
    a few hairs black and white and brown, your flag and mine.
    Did you know already? That you will die?
    That I will die with you after that night to end all nights?

    I watched the needle enter your muscle,
    the plunger pushing the liquid in, half of it, then all of it.
    I couldnít watch the second shot,
    ran out of the room and hid in a corner
    howling in my mind howling in my mind howling in my mind.
    Respecting you. Letting you go. With dignity.
    Oh, so painful it was letting you go...
    Then he told me with fake sorrow in his voice that it was over. I paid him.
    I took you with me.
    There will be flowers above you, and around you, and in your heart.
    And all the worldís desert in mine.
    I loved you, friend mine. Like a child.
    I have no choice now but to become a believer.
    I must believe that I will meet you again.

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Missing

    to my puppy...

    Missing the scratching sound at night
    on the side of my bed,
    Missing the bark
    lately so weak I called you Flipper,
    Missing the patience, sitting by my side as I was eating
    and fixing me with those incredible eyes of yours
    waiting for me to share.
    I always shared, my meat, my Jaffa cake, even my green salad.
    You never refused.
    Until you refused. And it was the end.

    Remember... no, you canít remember anything anymore,
    I do,
    Do you remember chasing birds
    joyful and carefree till some obstinate goose would stand its ground
    and you would return wailing between my legs,
    Do you remember when you ran so fast that you fell in the lake
    and afterwards we both rolled laughing in the grass till you were dry?
    Do you... oh... sorry, you donít remember,
    I do,
    Do you... oh... I sound mixed up, donít I, senility Ė is it part of sorrow?

    I remember you insisting in being part of every picture I took,
    Your head or your ear or your tail or your paw always in,
    I can prove it, I have all these pictures
    and I cry daily over them.
    I remember you remembering that one turn in the road
    on our way to your preferred restaurant
    where you would stand up and start barking my head off in the car
    willing everybody to know we are coming
    and I would drink the beer and you would eat the salties.
    I remember...

    I could write a book about it.
    Missing... I could write a book about it.
    I remember you.
    Missing you. Missing you. Missing you.

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Still

    to my puppy...

    I can still smell you,
    in the room, next to my bed,
    I go around sniffing, trying to inhale inside me leftovers of you,
    I see your medication boxes lying forgotten in the plastic tray,
    The half empty pack of dog food...
    you always got more than you could eat,
    middle of the night I heard you sometimes nibbling,
    I wake up at odd hours tiptoeing around
    afraid to step on you, then I remember that the floor is empty of you,
    You are gone.

    Pictures, hairs, your toys, your blanket...
    Oh, God, the torment to know you lone and frightened
    inside that narrow, cold, dark drawer
    freezing your body into one rigid lump of flesh,
    Your hair still soft, so soft, so soft...

    *

    Today we buried you. It drizzled. Grey skies.
    The wooden box too big for you,
    I put in your red leash Ė your symbol of liberty,
    a small stuffed bear, a blanket in case you find it cold there.
    They were filling the hole with fresh steaming earth
    and I kept throwing in lumps of it with my hands,
    smearing the dirt into my eyes as I tried to see,
    till it was full. I placed fresh flowers above, a pot,
    human weakness. I did not want to put cut flowers,
    someone told me she does not like flowers cut,
    I remembered. You would have loved her.

    They let me see you one last time before screwing the top on,
    your frozen body one rigid lump of flesh,
    Your tail inert,
    Your hair still soft, so soft, so soft...
    Oh, how I wanted to scream...

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3 x T

    to my puppies...

    I visited you today,
    my three Tís, ranged side by side under the tree
    like an eternal blessing,
    my curse in the memory of death unending,

    Tiger the valiant,
    Tizza the gregarious,
    Toy... the softer than chocolate in the sun, inside the sun,
    my doggies, my babies
    and all the knowledge of wonder and timelessness of pain.

    Emptiness,
    as large as the distance separating us
    how can all of it reside inside me
    and still leave place for lungs and bones
    and whateverís left of heart?
    Whateverís not left of heart is with you, there, wherever.

    I did not want to cry,
    I wanted to show strength, determination, masculine brawn...
    I howled like a baby,
    worse,
    kissing your images frozen under the layer of lacquer
    and grinding the dust between my teeth
    together with the salt and pieces of lip...
    I miss you,
    biting, licking, bitching... ha, bitching,
    so many humans worthy of the ďcomplimentĒ
    and you, so human your definition.

    I donít look behind me,
    I look forward
    to the day we meet again.

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Pithecanthrope

    before the wheel,
    before the knife and the metal and the fire,
    pithecanthrope
    I would have combed your hair with thistles
    and washed your skin with snow
    and laid your lair with dried grass and crumbled bark and lost feathers.

    and food?

    squashed overripe pears into your mouth
    and stolen honey between your lips
    and goat milk in my cupped hand for you to slurp,
    and loved you into toothlessness.

    after the wheel,
    after the knife and the metal and the fire,
    pithecanthrope once again
    I will comb your hair with phosphorescent fingers
    and wash your skin with heavy water
    and lay your lair with radioactive ash.

    and food?

    sweep exploded pears into your mouth
    and volatilized honey molecules between your lips
    and my breastís milk for you to slurp,
    and love you into eternal radiance.

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Your Way

    You finally had it your way.
    As long as you wanted to live, nobody could stop you from,
    once you decided to leave, no one could prevent you from,
    not the doctors, not the nurses, not the tubes, the machines,
    all impotent
    when faced with your resolution.

    I know why.
    I don't blame you because I know why,
    I know you were right,
    lucid,
    though few could understand it, if at all.

    Goodbye, tata.
    I don't believe in "there".
    You did, I wish me to be wrong
    and you to meet the one who left you countless years ago.
    Yes, countless.
    One is many,
    more than ten is countless,
    I wish your dream comes true.
    Unfortunately, it can be in death only.

    I will miss you,
    oh, how I will miss you.
    And your world class pickles.
    And the warmth of your hug.
    Goodbye, tata.

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The Last Of Your Odyssey

    And you could not,
    unfortunately,
    share in it.

    I packed out the clothes -
    some had to be thrown out,
    some washed, some brand new,
    you planned to live a few hundreds of years, didn't you
    even though I kept finding notes
    with your final wishes and instructions
    in case of... in case that...

    A few brand new pots. Probably cost a fortune.
    Two barely used check books,
    an unpacked microwave oven... microwave?
    you hardly knew to use the new telephone
    with all the buttons and oral instructions and settings
    so what for a microwave except that you wanted, maybe, to feel in,
    mom's clothes... why in hell you kept mom's clothes
    until now, fifteen years after... after?...
    I still find it difficult to identify the after what properly
    probably so did you
    and you kept her clothes
    instead of identifying the after what,
    tens of hand watches, wall clocks...
    The mirror,
    did you put it there to feel less lonely
    sitting at the small kitchen's table and watching yourself
    behind the wall?

    The wardrobe.
    First time it is empty in, what, fifty years?
    The bed.
    First time it is empty in, what, fifty years?
    The house.
    First time it is empty in, what, fifty years?

    I collect the keys, the letters, the pictures,
    I empty the drawers,
    I collect the dust... does it still carry your fingerprints,
    mom's fingerprints?
    I collect mental images,
    these for me, for the after,
    another kind of after what,
    final.

    Someone will tear down the walls,
    someone will tear up the tiles,
    tear away the doors, paint everything in strange colors,
    someone will own it, it,
    the place we once called
    home.

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Our House

    The sand
    flows.

    English, this time, I write it for me
    and no one else.
    I may be talking to you,
    I talk to me, to nobody.

    The last days.
    Your home, soon no oneís home
    not even mine.
    I removed the pictures from the walls
    leaving square marks,
    none to tell who was hanging there in framed fame - your son, your grandsons,
    your one and only marriage picture?

    Boxes, tools, nails,
    dishes - some broken, all washed,
    I wanted to make sure they are all washed and clean
    before someone else takes over
    and throws them away,
    who needed your dishes except me
    knowing that at sometime, in the past, you ate from them,
    we all ate from them, together?
    Not many clothes left,
    yours - mom, long yellowed and gone
    except for the few that you, daddy, refused to let part
    at the cost of your life. You loved her, oh, you loved her.
    I love you, oh, I loved you, both,
    no one left to love. Not even the house.
    Soon gone, no more, no mine, gone.

    The slippers under the bed,
    probably never worn.
    The wash-machine, the last time I touch where you touched.
    Your bed,
    I slept in it, you know that I slept in it
    listening to the creaking old mattress and the creaking old frame
    and watching the lamp on the ceiling as old as the room itself. Never replaced.
    I never wondered why. I donít wonder why now.
    Too much pain to wonder about anything now.
    I open one last time the empty wardrobe doors,
    what do I look for, I donít know?
    I open and close several times the water tap - flow, drip, flow, drip...
    lock and unlock the door. Several times.
    Take digital pictures
    of the empty walls, the worn carpet, the furniture left behind,
    the dishes, even the broken ones. The keyhole. The key.

    Video cassettes. Those that you, daddy, were preparing for mom when back from work.
    Audio cassettes. In Yiddish, Romanian, some with the voices of your grandsons.
    The decoration on the wall. Your pride, mom, when your grandchildren gave it to you,
    a present, how many hundreds of years ago?
    Some albums. Photos where daddy tried in vain to find a past,
    not finding a future.
    The key into a strangerís hand. He paid the money.
    Our house his.
    Not ours.
    Forever.

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