The widow stops crying.
Her servant Is awake.
Madame, Madame, use my tissue, wipe your tears and overlook the ticking clock.
Fallen frames, scattered pictures, and waning thoughts, nothing runs.
When you're wasted and abandoned, the widow will fix a place for you, next to her spouses within her garden.
Her garden?
Yes, there, no flowers grow, and no wind breathes.
Only fallen men try to outlive her dull songs, her and insane poems.
The widow stops crying, it's time for her new spring.
YOU ARE READING
Letters To My Dark Friend (#Wattys2015)
PoesiaMy Dark friend, I have written those letters for you. It's getting darker before midnight .
