Warm, lively and loving like
golden words
from
satin lips.
Kind and gentle
like the touch of the sun on your back.
It is as it should be.
Bitter like rain,
stinging tears from the angry clouds
above.
The icy touch of a snowflake
frozen pain,
falling.
Rotting,
sickness,
pain
and loneliness,
darker than the unknown
made light by the crinkled, paper hand of poets in their sadest moments.
Pushing aside their conscience
in an effort to be free
of guilt
Soaking in their transgressions
like sponges of hopelessness.
empty of emptiness.
