Whisper Killed
S Sandra Fowler
0
Altın Yaprak
My hand is still in yours. A distant leaf
Lies whisper killed upon the rigid grass.
Frost clinks like ice against the window glass.
When will monotony give us relief?
The blue line of the sill is set in stone.
The artificiality of cold
Rims hills with the precision of its gold.
Touch seems to help the glory hold its own.
The wind is startling to stiff twilight,
The disembodied tree limbs scrape and sigh,
Against a vast infinitude of sky.
Hands tighten on the sheer edge of the night.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş