that still tastes like you!
the sound of thunder,
as snowflakes dance to the ground.
the wet stain on cardboard legs….
ah, yes, and more!
the words that only silence knew,
barefoot prayers, and clouds of breath.
forests lost in shadows,
in eyes both timeless and raw.
the scent of perfume in the book on the shelf.
tis fire that must be touched,
must be tasted and felt.
while the crows fly on a gray wrapped canvas…
the lies of distance grow fainter with need!
perhaps then a corner table,
a couple drinks without speaking,
fingers that almost touch.
the poem comes to life,
takes a body for it’s own….
perhaps it’s always been this way!
only in death, but just maybe in life!
a stray cat follows the footprints,
those left by angels and demons….
there are no names but something more,
fire leaves its scar on burned out temples….
while sparrows walk on snow,
making Pessoa wonder!
naked in bed….
sipping good brandy…..
old dog asleep at the foot
of the bed….
phone unplugged!
dont give a damn
what day it is!