|
This is how death may come,
a Sunday night, laying down a foolish book, my shirt pulled over my head and tucked beneath the pillow for morning. My hair shining gold in the light, my vanity, my judge in the mirror soon to be draped, no pendulum to stop. It's late. Red numbers flash the hour. I'll close my eyes and follow my breath, the path to tomorrow, life or death.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Enjoy these poems and short essays on nature and awakened life.Archives
January 2019
Categories |