Our memories glow like glass,
stained with resined memories & sweey ivy leaves masked along
dusted nerves , the flowers you framed across my
face & in my hair are wilted-dead and I am dust-shunned like an old steepel
i hear the church bell scream like an ancient kiss,
from the woods where we would sleep around the perfect
fire. I hear it die out with the fainting
cries- solumnbell
hush love, I cannot breathe in any more of these sad words
these music- songs are longing to bring us back into this
warm space where your arms lie around me and our
souls are together, where they are free- and belong.
The Sundays ache like mad tombstones ,
it was our day, when we would watch the sun come up in its
pool of fire orange clouds and warm us
from the chill of the april air.
Your athiest words have crucified my martyr soul
with all of their good- byes. love, This is my hell.

08/12/2004

Posted on 08/12/2004
Copyright © 2025 Wendy Geal