Saturday, November 23, 2013

There is no memory in the wind

I taste the solitude. 
It's a house with 
many doors, none 
a paean of the
memory you so 
dutifully preserved. 
It's cold, the verses 
have gone silent; the
frost in the wind 
settles reluctantly
on tired lips. 
The air sweating 
time like mist on 
closed windows. How 
long will we brush 
the dust of silence
under the duvet? 
How long the dream 
be our sole memory? 
The smile I adorned 
was a stolen dream. The 
shoes have been discarded, 
the dust wiped out clean. 
The vagabonds of years 
past return home, the 
memory a deep 
longing;searching for 
places to hide.

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