it was the echo of
a ghost-town, but she is
only hollow, not
transparent
now she sits in a lost alleyway painted
with rust;
scribbled clauses on
the pages of her journal have begun
to fade
flickering candlelight, catch
a missing note of music, faint
sprig of mint in the pounding
silence
sprig of mint in the pounding
silence
sometimes bags
can't be unpacked, letters
not written
scattered feathers of a parrot, sing
the chorus, again, again
we are, we were, i am, i was
and it hits her, harsh reality
of concrete;
rough, tight-lipped texture,
wild hands of graffiti,
opaqueness never undone.
1 comment:
the last parts of your poems are good.
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in the wake of light, your words bring me more(please, do leave your fingerprints behind, so I may relish the image of our hands after you go.)