There isn’t a bed of roses,
in these four walls, that I’m living in.
And, there isn’t a lock to pick on the door.
Just, outside, there is the road to nowhere;
it has its curves, and four way stops.
There are out dated signs, leading to me.
As well as, a broken bridge.
Inside, there is somebody in the mirror, looking at me;
with whom, I am trying to grow familiar.
But, sometimes, she feels light-years away.
And, I, beside myself, if you will.
I see, her eyes holding back a raging storm;
in which, she has been forever lost.
Dusty curtains, frame the window to her soul.
And, there are cobwebs, growing in her heart.
Birds, have started forming nests, in the corners of her mind;
as, she stands there still as time.
As, I stare into the eyes, of amnesia;
I cringe, at the potholes, it’s left in my soul.
The light is still on, but, I’m waiting for somebody to come back home.
Every day, I trace my footsteps, back to myself; through the fog.
But, it’s a long way, when you don’t know, where you’re going.”
And, you’re without a sense, of which ways up.
It’s like, when you’re going down the street in the dark – with no traffic lights;
and, you’re hoping you don’t hit a deer.
I am aware, I’m alone, and on a road, that’s less traveled.
Looking for anything, that will remind me of who I am.
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