The songstress lies with her
garland of flies,
her mouth pressed to dirt,
her coppered breast still,
still like the Sheep's-bit
that mourns her passing.
A glass eye gazes at
the gilded skies,
where arias were sung,
where she used to dance,
dance on the apron
of her topaz stage.
She could only dream
the sweetest verses,
dying as we passed,
dying with her songs,
songs we've forgotten
of dusk and berries.
YOU ARE READING
Fragments And Reflections
PoetryPoems looking at everything and anything not in my other collections. Here you'll find life and time, wild oceans and lonely coast paths, busy streets and empty hotel rooms, wild concerts and late night writing. All just fragments and reflections, l...
