red mouthed brides climb over fabric
laying their raven locks upon the earth.
in search of greater pleasures;
finding one's self.
could you return in good time?

time drenched sundays pile
upon clouded cold mornings
without life, without breath.

envelopes unfold to reveal
letters never sent, never written
and the ghosts of words never said

tonight, echo around my room.

04/23/2006

Author's Note: This is the only way I can describe the death of a future and the birth of a new point of view.

Posted on 04/24/2006
Copyright © 2024 J. P. Davies