dance tunelessly to the
nightly breath of the wind.
A wooden chair : a dull mist
to this life but a black rose
to the dream, broods
in enigma depths.
A hidden painting of angels white,
drunk with pride is hugged
by the night - its nectar
seeped to leave black void
enshroud it.
A door that hisses in stark silence
as it feels a stone breeze
wafting by it, a secret being
who is making love to nothing :
his ethereal moan heard only as a chill by quivering petals.
Wrinkled sheets which spread,
no, sprawl themselves possessively
on an ancient bed longing for
warm embraces.
And I;
Cold;
And sad.
Sad.
Written - 12-14-01; 4:24 PM
Added - 4-14-03; 3:08 AM
Jenna White