Hollow shells of displaced hope
crunch beneath my head,
as tonight I toss and turn
with your voice spinning my mind.
My pillow is cruel and cold
plump with jagged sorrows;
parts of a bird trapped like there is
no tomorrow without you.
You are invincible like a hero,
but I have a broken shell
through which feeling seeps,
and you have yourself to save.
Things have been the way they seem
for pretense played no part in this tale.
But dream’s deceptive fog did not lift
soon enough to prevent disenchantment.
Jennifer Burnside
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