Cracks in the painting
Of the wall that supports,
splinters in the frame,
the door expands with the changes,
sits ajar,
is no longer a fortress
is no longer safe.
We lie here, with one eye open.
with thoughts clouded
with dreams held at bay.
Knowing that the breeze can blow this all away.
Yet still we hold,
for warmth, for cover,
for leverage,
And count the cracks in the paint work
as if trying to count sheep.
P Davidson. 03/02/10
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