Supine
On the floor
Of an unfinished treehouse
I stare into
The glow
Of a Wednesday
Morning.
My sketch pad
And a few
Unfinished books
Scattered around me
Some are fiction
Others not.
I stare into the
The ever lightening
Sky, searching
For inspiration.
She took that with
Her.
I lost a sense of
What beauty is
When I no
Longer woke to
Her eyes.
Poems and sketches sit
half finished
And I lie half
-- of what I was.
In a world that
Has such a complete
Understanding
Of every
Morning
Breath.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
Supine
On the floor
Of an unfinished treehouse
I stare into
The glow
Of a Wednesday
Morning.
My sketch pad
And a few
Unfinished books
Scattered around me
Some are fiction
Others not.
I stare into the
The ever lightening
Sky, searching
For inspiration.
She took that with
Her.
I lost a sense of
What beauty is
When I no
Longer woke to
Her eyes.
Poems and sketches sit
half finished
And I lie half
-- of what I was.
In a world that
Has such a complete
Understanding
Of every
Morning
Breath.
