Speak To Me Of Prose

Those lines so tight and light they speak to me of prose. The way that time turns back the clock, this woman not a girl. Open doors, clear windows show what I have to give. Deep inside the closet is a door -closed he showed me. Because you liked it still - Still I like it to! Perhaps one day the woman that always was I am. Perhaps one day the little girl out side she ran away. My brain once his, is seen - I can not let it go. Those the wise the way I choose when wisdom is because. Above his mantle sits my clock, below his looks I have.