Are you real
Or a mirage?
But standing there in your overcoat of black,
outlined against a sky,
colored moody gray,
you are untouchable
to all but the rain.
The wind lifts up the tail of your coat
Blowing it behind you,
Like great black wings,
Whipping against the wind.
I watch the wind stir
Your platinum dyed hair
Like a field of wheat, rustled by blind hands.
I want to be the wind,
Running my hand through that field,
Touching your face,
Kissing away the tears you refuse to shed.
But I don’t.
I just stand there
In the distance
And silently watch.
Copyrighted
to the Shazriel Archives with the permission of Sharon
Coote, December 11, 2004
[Phantom]
[Wolf]