Spending Mental Wages

There is this desert between us, 
that I would gladly walk, 
just to reach you, 
just to see your face, 
looking as it one did. 

All there is, is tension, 
in this dry place, 
shadows and crossed out faces, 
all is a dream, 
nothing seems real, 
pile soft unsent letters, 
collecting dust on the table, 
empty walls, 
barren soul.

Lost little girl, 
driven away, 
never intending to look again, 
into that kaleidoscope world, 
in that small house.

Church hymns and prayers, 
unheard and unheeded, 
lighted candles, 
and novenas, 
annointed with the oil of catechumens, 
so as to bring to God's attention, 
but still you walk away, 
you walk faster than me, 
I grow older, 
and can't keep up, 
all these barriers that do not need to be here, 
blackened windows, 
can't see in or out, 
closed up with doors locked tight, 
I scratch until my fingers bleed, 
and still it never opens up. 

There were days, 
long gone now, 
when much more than now made sense, 
when so much more than now, 
was already there, 
walking bckwards, 
through the fire, 
only to end up in this rain and fog, 
standing alone, 
waiting for the tide that never rises far enough, 
to reach me.

All the dreams I never thought to lose, 
all crammed into boxes in the back of the closet, 
how quiet and worn out they seem now, 
and how there is no presence of you to breath life into them now, 
you remain far away, 
on your own, 
self imposed exile, 
from all you know, 
except for the one you have come to love, 
and God help him if he ever lets you down, 
because you will hang him up in that gallery you guard so closely.

Look at the way we're living, 
look at the blood that's spilling, 
surrounded by hate and sin, 

A world of your own choosing, 
a place of pain and losing, 
a world of walls and cages, 
spending these mental wages. 

See how far away she is, 
come to believe this plot of showbiz, 
stand aside and believe she will, 
taken for granted, all this anger will kill.

There is nostalgia, 
mistakes that have been made and paid for, 
they have painted that room, 
now settled into its dark corners, 
of silence and fear, 
newly complemented grudges, 
not being able to find your way home, 
out there all on your own, 
ignoring the ringing phone, 
no way out, 
no way back, 
blinded by your own rage, 
never stopping to remember, 
or reaching the heavens, 
to understand all that you reject, 
behind those hoodies and frowning faces, 
that you use so well to get me to leave me you alone. 

T.S. Deary 
4/23/25