Only Not.

Like Calling for Christmas. (but it isn't Christmas)
By: the iHope Poet

To that thought at the tip of my tongue,
this page in the grip of an anxious hand,
To the words at the end of this chapter,
where the sentence is long, unfinished and dry;
I say, Where Are You?

To the burden, though lifted, still heavy,
those scars that relentlessly tear,
To my drooping eyelids and forever-spent nights,
when the burn of the burn-out is never unfelt;
I say, Where?

Where is the perspective, the horizon of dreams?
where is the throb in my legs -- now gone numb --
from the running, somewhere, somewhere; where?
Though I hold my eyes open, with a finger or two,
where is the sight of that hope, once so clear,
which is now as blurry as dawn behind closed lids?

To the strength to press onward,
I say, Find Me.
Because for you I have searched on and on.
And on. Because of you.

To the love of all things clarity, 
Please, Find Me.
But until then, I say,
Where?

via