, , ,

an eye at the corner of her head

pass through the darkened noon

seeing walls greyer than lead

and a roof painted to see the moon

the skull float’s with golden hair

dried out by a warming June

They see a kiss, but withhold a stare.

The sight of the morning, lost

at the turn of a head.  The blonde now aware

of where a heart not crossed

will find it’s source of dread

and how a parent’s soul finds frost