Dreams December, dark and dry
Screams the stark September sky.
His book lies open on the window desk,
Where the wind riffles each thin yellow page
And days thinner yet dance a grave burlesque.
He must oblige the cinnamon faces,
Ancestors pleading from an old desk drawer,
Sepia ghosts in seedy, worn laces.
His name wanes first, a whirling swirling wave
In the womb of the salubrious sea,
Washed at long last in her hallowed nave.
Recalls him not warm July
Nor will May. Nor will I.
:) I missed you.
How uncharacteristic... I'm so used to your arrythmias keeping their own characteristic pulse. Here, it's as if you turned and walked away mid sentence. Forceful.
Who have you been reading?
.. wonderful. if Cleopatra had been into books, she too would want to bathe in your words.
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