Birthday

A poem was long due

To the detour of eyeliners

Along fine lines

On a weary face.

Another was due

To the chaos of a tempest mind

Contained safe

In barren sanities.

And another

To the poetry within

That never found form

So mingled with the blood...

And a last one

To this day each year,

That unfolds like a stranger

Full of promise, and love

And closes at dusk

Like it never was.