Lost

 

Lost as the list that the wind 

Whipped from a hand

And dropped 

in a puddle.


That the author,

In a foreign land,

Holds in their mind,

Repeating and repeating,


Until it becomes a song. 

No comments:

Post a Comment

Death and beginnings

  I was stuck in my Nana's house, where I was born. In the front room, transfixed by the pink glass light shade painted with flowers and...