Thursday, 9 September 2010
why do you keep re-writing
the faces of what has already been,
layer upon layer of feverish scribble?
the past cannot be altered,
the stranger said, his amber voice
i stood there broken,
the quiet of the dead for my only flame.
oh if the sky could know of the loneliness
of its blue.
outside, the tree was gently falling
into autumn, unaware that it did so,
and how hard i wished for the time of the tree,