it was the echo of 
a ghost-town, but she is
only hollow, not

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

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:

Caitlin said...

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.)