This is the song of girls
who pressed themselves close,
and tried to be, my friend.
The softness of hands and
golden sweet lashes, that planted
seeds of memories.
They gave their songs of giggles and
breaths, whose sweet drawn, never to
capture again.
In memory of them and their smiles,
the passing of time reveals just
essence flickering back
of my head, whose scents unique.
Beautiful women who nursed and raised,
but move so slowly for me, the air and
the temperature, the thoughts;
they float on water.
Give them peace with time,
give me one more taste, a tint of
hue, their drawn lyric,
before floating away,
ebbing in slow rhythm.
2010 Barry Comer – www.blackcatpoems.com
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 4:11 PM UTC
This is the song of girls
who pressed themselves close,
and tried to be, my friend.
The softness of hands and
golden sweet lashes, that planted
seeds of memories.
They gave their songs of giggles and
breaths, whose sweet drawn, never to
capture again.
In memory of them and their smiles,
the passing of time reveals just
essence flickering back
of my head, whose scents unique.
Beautiful women who nursed and raised,
but move so slowly for me, the air and
the temperature, the thoughts;
they float on water.
Give them peace with time,
give me one more taste, a tint of
hue, their drawn lyric,
before floating away,
ebbing in slow rhythm.
2010 Barry Comer – www.blackcatpoems.com
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