Saturday, 2 August 2008

Poetry of Time


How softly a warm breath on the window
Whispers of ghosts bathed in fire.
Questions, deep as night and vast as eternity
Stream down the dirty glass.
Secrets, dark as desire in wet clouds
Of perfumed smoke bleed into the blushing universe.
Only fools speak of yesterday's angels
Bourne away on dancing stars,
Blind to the sacred poetry of bread.

This is what happens when ones mother is talking about dinner while one is trying to be artistic... Dammit woman!

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