April 23, 2016 § Leave a comment
There is nothing poetic about the letting go,
the death in your eyes, a black hole
where your soul belongs.
There’s no poetry in your silence,
the empty sighs that ricochet around this house,
nothing beautiful about the dust collecting atop every surface
or your bloodshot eyes.
Yet, I try to find it;
the hint of a soul still hidden,
a lingering smile at the corner of your lips,
a word, poetic, at the tip of your tongue
waiting to tumble out in a rush,
to engulf us in its beauty
and erase everything else –
the wicked, the un-poetic,
the things I can’t even shape into words.