What hurts most
perhaps only is this moment
when I watch you walk
away from me.
Tell me please:
is it because I am cold,
breathing lifeless breaths beside you?
I am but dust within my grave
without a mouth to speak or
kiss your soul.
Well I am covered with the
finger prints of shallow musings,
so paint me there upon your canvas
in shades of redemption's son.
Clothe me then in linens pure,
and lest I die,
stain me red.
photo
No comments:
Post a Comment