the moon slipping
away, ghost like,
as morning rises, the snow
on the ground
losing
its whiteness to the traffic
of foot and wheel
that the day brings,
another night is lost,
slow in its farewell.
why is there such affection
for that which fades.
even false love has her
dark hand upon you.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment