Looking past windblown leaves
to the heart of the empty home
where whistles echo and roam
through cobwebs in the eaves,
dusty daylight pours through frail curtains,
silent couches absorbing
faint heat.
Everything fell to pieces
in the peak of winter
and the seasons effect my reasoning,
I only come back
to pick wildflowers
the first days of summer.
Never will there ever be
another grave for us to rest
so perfect as this memory,
a tribute to our failures passed.
A contest entry
- solitary by formless.
800 points, ended March 20, 23 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Any ideas to help me better this?
Comments
-
Wow.
i like it.
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