To give up on love is to die
Slowly from the inside out
Like the old stories
Of people cursed
Turning to stone
10/30/2009 11:33 PM
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Comments: 8
his catatonic eyes stare forward.
Does he see me here,
ever vying
for just a spark of recognition?
What thoughts now cross his mind?
Does he have a glazed vision of us?
Or has he drawn so far inward
that he sleeps upright, with his eyes open?
Will he ever return,
or is he on a soul's journey within?
My angel birch is singing loudly today in a stark northerly wind. It's like an old time radio tower; a transmitter out. Beaming lots your way from the homestead Bard. Happy Halloween!