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Sweetheart
November 14, 2012
Ah, sweetheart, look at the army of clouds
Marching with the shiver of a thousand candles
As the slick molasses of moisture
Runs down our trodden slippers
And clings to our faded pants.
If we really are just the dust of chaff,
If we really cannot scrape our fingers on Braille
Ah, dear, as we run our stained socks
Against the walls of this quivering tower
How can you explain that sight, a wisp?
© Ashley D., Philadelphia, PA
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