Lament

I  feel like an old wrung out wash-cloth…

… or a wilted rose never reached its recipient…

…or a disembodied and shabby scarecrow…

…in torn clothing deployed on a desolate
already harvested field with only stubble and
clay…

… squeaking my remaining teeth in the howling
bitter wind with an unbearable grinding sound…

…complaining like a dying magpie over absent love
never realized…

When will you ever come,  I think I lose my mind ….

wilted rose

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This entry was posted in poem by vonnely, poems, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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