Tweet
The body withers
Like a dry stalk in search of rain
In a cloudless sky
Moments of past pleasure
Play out
Like a silent movie festival
A litany of past sins
And wrongdoings linger
In late afternoon light
You reach out to try
To touch
Like a blind man would
What has been lost
Perhaps the antiquarian smell
Of old books
Like a dry stalk in search of rain
In a cloudless sky
Moments of past pleasure
Play out
Like a silent movie festival
A litany of past sins
And wrongdoings linger
In late afternoon light
You reach out to try
To touch
Like a blind man would
What has been lost
Perhaps the antiquarian smell
Of old books
Comment