Who writes?

Seconds, minutes, hours,
and time merges them together
until day gives way to night
and I walk the shadowed halls
of each weakness I possess.

Night comforts and caresses
like a lover’s gentle hands
and I stir within a dream
frightened there to see
love walks a lonely path
beyond my mental feel.

Wakeful now, aware,
but dreaming still I see
the coming in of loneliness
and I suffocate.


“Breathe”, she says,

and I listen to the gurgle
of one by love possessed
rise up and out in agony
into the still and silent night.

Dramatic for effect
and I read the words, reflect;
who writes the pain and heartache
of unrequited love?