emily, she lays out a line of words;
and as clay is busy setting,
you find yourself in a dream;

one, where there are timbers
holding-up your attic and roof;
and none of them loadbearing.

writing on a napkin another line,
she traced the outline of lonely;
smirked at its grayness, droll.

her bun spoke the words of a Church bell:
she was of purity, depth, essence, words
were her gifts of easing pain by sharing hers.

07/09/2011

Posted on 07/10/2011
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