Winter, Wither
Aug 11, 2022
December breeze sings of the dead dry branches
of those withered arms reaching out for the departing warmth
twisting to embrace the fading trails of bruised petals.
Spirits tiptoed in a golden amphitheatre
or a glass auditorium
as my sleeve smudged the glistening ink
which slithered over this burnt paper.
And the neon moon flickered its last lights
when crimson droplets kissed your marble lips
we breathed in a miasma of drifting ice
Ashes danced on your lashes.
(A cathartic write at 3am)
