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As quiet as the wind whistling through the hollowed shell, as quiet as the grave
as empty as that hope has proved to be, as vacant as an abandoned vow
the hollow in your cheek, untouched, the wind across our faces
as we turn our backs on the day

but what tomorrow comes? more voidal entropy, sagacious, potency unused
sorry? to whom? flesh razor-sliced, crimson so deep there is no recalling
we join there, the distant shore. it's too bad,
it's how it is. the sun
an amber disc.

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This page contains a single entry by the false blogger published on February 17, 2009 11:12 PM.

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