Well-dressed in dust,
they repair your hands
as if you were sleeping; rarely beauty
survives the teeth of time.
As for me, these tear-filled eyes
steeped in dreaming recognize
the rhythm of the final dance.
Could it be this cold, dead insect
whose wings are made of ice
are mine?
4 comments:
The beautiful thing
about being human
is our ideas
can die in our stead.
In that sense only
dying is the first stage
in a new beginning.
Beautiful write, wisely done!
Hello rachel long time no read your words clifford sent your blog I would love to put some of your poetry on Shanna s beat in sketchbook please email me shanna@hawaiiantel.net
Intimations of mortality? Powerful. I think I've been here too.
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