There are no last poems about you. You are like the lights on the Ganges, like feet washed in orange and secrets by the riverside. You are roadside tea in late November. You are early Christmas in the rundown back-streets of our city which is choking up and dying a little every day, like the river, like me.
But you, you are still too beautiful to be captured in poetry.
YOU ARE READING
Arcadia
PoetrySpilled thoughts, letters from no one, stories of another time, another place. - || H.R. : #50 in Poetry ||
