A Poet's Dying Breath
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
I can see the cemetary from my balcony.
They have always fascinated me,
always tugged at me.
There is history there,
etched on every stone
is a stroy snuffed out
leaving only the burnt wick.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Newer Post
Older Post
Home
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment