Those endless tales knitted by time
Remain to drown in the ocean.
These tales never reach others.
The gurgling of tapwater continues
as the postman starts his morning with his same worn bag
full of new envelopes
of sorrow, pain, joy, and delight.
This postman, too, has his own words
at the end of the day
that remain floating in the thick air
of his dimly-lit cottage.
None comes to him
to hear his words,
none knows the bruises
behind that smile.
All these years, their words were heard;
the rustling of leaves in the wind,
the moving of an old scooter,
as the chaos came nearer.
And when he returned in the evening
with that golden glow in his smile,
time wasn't there to recite his tales.
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A/N: But I believe there's enough time to get him and his tales a quick vote, isn't there?
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
