Black Feathers
At my
Door.
Are they from
You
Or them.
The Messengers
You
Send to
Me.
I Sit Here
This old desk
In front of me.
Letters
You left
Me
Always
Seem
To
Be
In my
Hand.
Memories
You
Leave me
The breath
In my
Lungs.
I Collect Them
As a way
To feel
You
Here
With
Me.
The Delicate
Touch
Of
Life
&
Death
Against
My
Fingertips.
I
Suppose
Seeing you
In
My mind's
Eye
Will
Someday
Be
Enough.
But
For
Now
I hold these
Pieces
Of
You
Close
To
Me.
A
Visceral
Technicolor
Lucid
Dream.
In
A
World
Slowly
But
Surely
Forever
Painted
By
You.
