01-30-2020, 02:25 AM
Our eyes still slide past you,
refuse to see. Our focus
blurred by other tears.
You are all the dripping wax
from the candle’s flame--nothing
more, the echo
from the lone bell’s tolling.
If you had lived,
you would have had a story
to share with your children. Even now,
I have forgotten your names.
refuse to see. Our focus
blurred by other tears.
You are all the dripping wax
from the candle’s flame--nothing
more, the echo
from the lone bell’s tolling.
If you had lived,
you would have had a story
to share with your children. Even now,
I have forgotten your names.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson