Your words are like
Wounds to my soul
Pleading, cajoling, persuading
Like knives, daggers in my heart
And I walk away, head downturned
To see your words floating in a cloud around me

In the summer you sweat;
In the winter you get wet!
We are such frail and fragile creatures

Our nobleness, delusion
Our aspirations, dreams
Our kindness, troubled conscience
All is dust, in the slippery hands of fate

I remember when
A diet of raw information
Or the presence of good company
Was like a satisfying meal
Or your touch
Just there on my skin
Was an electric forest of sensation

(C) 1997 Christopher Julian Hudson