coffee grasped between cold fingers
a packet of cigarettes poking out of her jacket
a tattoo of a rose on her finger
and daisies embedded in her hair
perilous rocky edges
trees sky high
a thick mist suffocating the air
and a long way to climb
a cliff of fifty feet
nobody could climb
but she found a way
one day in wintertime.
she sat at the top
legs dangling over the edge
and she'll always remember
how it felt on that ledge
and she'll always remember
how he happened to glance up.
her half-brother,
even if he didn't know such.
and when he died,
there was no other person to remember.
how he called for her to come down
one day in wintertime.
sometimes my poems give me this paradoxical feeling of
this is finished
but it seems so incomplete
but i suppose that is the beauty of poetry
YOU ARE READING
fire
Poetryshe was the candle that would never go out, even in the breeze of adversity. - a collection of poems
