Running From Conscience

Neon signs and lonely times.

The noisy silence of a motel room.

Too weak to be angry,

Too angry to look for hope,

Helplessness throbs in your head.

Standing alone at the window,

Looking out at the night,

Searching for nothing at all.

Just killing condemned time.

And only at the start of the infinite night.

If there`s a compassionate God,

You`ll be asleep by daybreak.

What are you really here for?

Terence Richard Rowlands

 

Submitted to POETRY.COM 18 / 10 / 03