Untitled, 6th August 2015

I’m sick of feeling like the hours tick beyond

the vail of my reality– the illusion that there is more

to come– if I just put it off for another day– it slips away–

and I feel the tiring decay against my heavy shoulders–

burdened with the same weary habits that discard

who I want to be– I am the illusionist to my own games–

always telling myself the subtle lies–

to bind me to this unwanted night– there is always another time–

another hour– minute– second– if only I could lift the mistakes–

see the edge– and know I am more than I allow myself to be–

  

© Phen Weston 2015

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