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chris-tyler-youngPoems
Dimly the light above me flickers, feeble, like my heart. Dust sparkles, diamond like in the fleeting beams of cold lights. Antiqued books, with yellowed pages and worn leather skins, cratered by clumsy fingers, line the dark oaken bookshelves. A fine veil of dust covers their naked skins. The walls, they were once beautiful, exotic vines crept up their lenghts, punctuated by vivid blooms. But now, now they bare a natural face. Garments pealed and faded blooms rest, fragile and wrinkled, at her feet. A dark, gray room in the final throws of death. No life survives, no light... no pulse... no thing, nothing save a single red rose. Summer Spring Winter Fall evermore she blooms. Her thick oily petals are smeared into the glass. she was there before I came. She will be there when I'm gone.
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Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 10:36 PM UTC
A Rose Sits in My Window Sill
Dimly the light above me flickers, feeble, like my heart. Dust sparkles, diamond like in the fleeting beams of cold lights. Antiqued books, with yellowed pages and worn leather skins, cratered by clumsy fingers, line the dark oaken bookshelves. A fine veil of dust covers their naked skins. The walls, they were once beautiful, exotic vines crept up their lenghts, punctuated by vivid blooms. But now, now they bare a natural face. Garments pealed and faded blooms rest, fragile and wrinkled, at her feet. A dark, gray room in the final throws of death. No life survives, no light... no pulse... no thing, nothing save a single red rose. Summer Spring Winter Fall evermore she blooms. Her thick oily petals are smeared into the glass. she was there before I came. She will be there when I'm gone.
chris-tyler-young
Written by
chris-tyler-young
American
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 10:36 PM UTC
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