I talked to him of private things,
of loneliness and pain.
I told him all my lofty dreams
my emptiness,
my shame.

I told him of my principles,
beliefs and loves, and rhyme.

I spoke to him of special needs,
of hurts and friends of mine.

I poured out the mirror,
the bottle which was me
And He seemed to drink its contents,
like a glass will hold the sea.
But, when I'd all but finished
and then let my trusting fall.

Well, I guess he wasn't really listening,
not really listening, after all.

May 16, 1971
  By Linda A. Copp ©