by Bethany Lee
The sacred, whatever-you-feel-like-doing days.
The breath on your neck ceases;
strong sighs of relief follow.
The alarm clock wont yank you suddenly
From the middle of a masquerade,
Leaving your eyes jaded to the newly found sunlight.
A shower melts the dreams away
Leaving your color-washed canvas blank.
There were landscapes there lastnight
Posted on 09/04/2008
Copyright © 2021 Bethany Lee
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Max Bouillet on 07/28/10 at 02:20 AM|
The picture at night is always more alluring than what is painted in the morning. Morning has that pesky reality feel that erases the nights magic. Morning shakes the etch a sketch clean. Great read!
|Posted by Rachelle Howe on 11/26/12 at 05:31 PM|
You have such a poignant voice in this. I dig. I really like the imagery.