In the waking moments of slumbering nights,
I hear her whisper-
The sounds of silhouettes,
Like puppets at the gallows.
I can't help but listen-
Violins screaming against strained strings;
I walk the fallow fields of the streets she
Created, sketched in recycled books,
Newspaper and receipts of faded memory-
At the expiry of an inebriated evening.
I toast an empty glass to
The dead stars and their forgetful light
And begin to dream again.
***original poem, created by Cameron Morgan. Copyright 2014. ***
No comments:
Post a Comment