painted desert


there are no mirrors
in this room

there are no clocks


there's a man
somewhere in the world
who pulled the plug
on my father's


there's a road through
the painted desert
that i will travel before
my child learns
to hate me


there are
my wife's tears and
the simple knowledge that
i'm the cause

there are apologies
but always too late


there are reasons for
but today they
feel like lies


there are enough words
in the language
to hang us all

John Sweet

If you've any comments on this poem, John Sweet would be pleased to hear from you.

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