Still, I have flirted with Death
even though I never say the words I’m supposed to
I can remember the sounds of voices best
and have woven clouds with silent string
that no one will ever be able to see
I have no interest in solving this mystery
In retracing past cowardices
There isn’t a way to write all of it down
A faith robbed and then sleuthed
somehow knowing the whole time
It’s nearly impossible to know
when the last time will be
I can’t write this story
No one ever remembers how it ends
Coquettish grief keeps doors from shutting tightly
No comments:
Post a Comment