With all my voice I cry to the Lord, with all my voice I entreat the Lord for mercy.
Each day I trek as the cold, New England winter wind rips across my face. Every day I cross nearly the breadth of the base knowing that this day shall be like the previous. The answer shall be the same. I hope for some letter, from you, from her, from someone dear. Every day, the same. Emptiness.
Well, not every day. Sometimes I get a bill.
Look to my right and see: I have no friends. There is nowhere to run, no one to care for my soul.
The URL to trackback this post is:
Copyright © 2002–2011 Kevin Robert (Basil) Fritts, all rights reserved.