In the sweetness of the morning,
When the dew still clings
To the gentle grass,
And the sun kisses the horizon
With a quiet mouth
And tired eyes,
Your memory hangs like the mist
And drifts and lingers
Like the softest breath.
The rustle of rising birds
And waking trees
Touches a forgotten silence,
And reaches out with shaking fingers,
In search of a beating life
With whom it can share the morning with.
Lightly, like a dance,
The birds rise into a sky
That is painted with the colour of your lips,
And they are silhouetted against a sun
As bright as your smile,
And my eyes shine with fragmented tears
As I watch them pass by.
Brushing past
Is the creeping chill
Of sorrow,
And it drips out into the morning
With careful feet,
So that it can breathe freely
And find its footing again.
When the heavy blue of the day
Drapes across the sky
Like a blanket,
And the dew lifts and disappears,
And the world ripples with unrelenting life,
I will cease to remember you,
And shall go on as usual.
But, just for another moment
Let me cling to your memory,
As the dew clings
To the gentle grass,
In the sweetness of the morning.
Then, and only then,
Will I be whole once more.
YOU ARE READING
the mind's recesses
Poezjawords that fell out of inky fingers, and stained the paper that lay on wooden tables.
