And as the stars lit silver the clouds in
replacement of the fresh tar nights
there was it - a calling of my name -
whispered and carried without a warm breeze.
A smell of smoke stained my hair but still he called.
There were conversations making still my heart and alert my flesh.
He sat there - almost next to me.
And when there was a touch on my arm -
the owl sang alarm.
I jumped and he was gone.
The stars were still there
hiding behind the cloud, but as ever
twinkling with their mischief.
Cold clawed up my leg with long fingernails and
longing to feel warmth.
I tore away and left anguished, wornout cries behind -
for numbing sanity was warm and comfortable -
wreaking of vanitacious conformity.
And I would be there until the
magic of night spoke to me again.
Dead Romanced
Did you like this poem? Write one of your own!
