Always the coldness
creeping in
disturbing the warmth
of my illusions,
illusions of
d’Artagnan seeking
one for all and
all for one
true friends
warm love
risking all.
For them
the musketeers
there were no borders drawn
between them,
they knew that
borders don’t exist
imaginary lines
drawn in the mists
of paranoia.
But they
the musketeers
are only my
illusions,
now.
Like them
I drift into
invisibility
missing them
I have become
a nonexistent
border
separating love
and despair.