A jay whose pinions furled aloft
To rest on the feeble twig of a spruce tree.
The blue petals of the flower you gave had wilted.
Hands of the pocket watch twitched to a stop.
A bowl of broth on the window sill lost its heat
From the cold air that diffused within the room.
Ember crackling softly to sparks in the fireplace,
Whilst piano keys play dissonant melodies.
Once teardrops become tapering icicles,
I wiped the fogged glass pane to look outside.
The bleakness of winter had passed,
And left a pewter sky for quiet streets to show.
Yet remnants from the blizzard buried the paths,
Where a solitary traveler plods toward crossroads.
By the sign at the corner of the sidewalk,
I saw a wisp of you.
YOU ARE READING
XVI. Alabaster
PoetryThe first poetry collection indited and compiled by the author when he was 16. It encompasses experimental and intricate works, including a bonus short story that serves as a sequel to Tiffany.
