When our clock has stopped ticking,
and faded pages fall from glass
like endless emblems of what was
along the pavement.
A bird in golden cage cooing--
a mournful sound in the moonlight
but I could taste it in the palms of my hands;
a beating drum.
We are chalk pictures on a driveway
scattered by rain; I can feel your
hand's been replaced by a phantom
and I'm sinking but I won't swallow.
When our clock has stopped ticking,
I'll stand there hoping for another second...
and you'll start again
Leave me thoughts:
Comments
-
awesome piece
Adding your comment:
