Here is where the sidelines end <br />Upon the mystified avenues I walk alone. <br />There are no spectators to worry over <br />This laboring heart, which she once said <br />Was without emotion, though I <br />Can hear it now beating out this dirge, <br />That futile song which pumps through <br />The lonely blood. Beyond the stadium <br />Where the great athletes sport for <br />Fine women in new dresses dawned like <br />Speckled coats of awakening fawns, <br />I labor away in an unjustified direction <br />Naked of hope, my wrists bared liked <br />Mollusks from their shells as time <br />Showers down the gravity like arrows <br />Cutting days into me, in the cells of my <br />Empirical carriage I pass the painful hours.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/painful-hours/
