Monday, September 19, 2005

Rien

Slope of an empty spoon that moonlight grazes and goes away

Bereft lily pad in a pond, clinging to a scent that wouldn't stay

Fading blackness of the night

A last unturned page

Old brown blood

Green raw bud

A cracked glass that won't hold a drink

Spilt perfumed wine

Not all, not much, not all that much
-But that is what it means to miss.

1 comment:

neha said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

440 of 534

 Today was good. Some solid work happened and some progress was made. There's an early morning call tomorrow. So I will probably make my...