There’s no desire left
to dance with wildflowers.
Allow me to retreat
with dignity
to my black room
of blame.
My feet rubbed raw
from grit and gravel
travels
over torn pages
of pride,
conceived from married wishes
and vowed promises.
Sagacious scoffing sun,
with hints
of umber undertones,
destroys my satisfaction.
Uninvited are
these negative nuances,
my naivety
and unhinged utterances;
imitated memories
mocking me.
Past tense photographs,
ridiculing reminders
of what was,
stuttered,
staggered,
on waning white walls
of goodbye.


















11 old applause
