Love Song

Twilight, walking Britz’s field,
snowflakes like ashes of a colder fire,
like confetti of the world gone mad.

Pines on the flat east sky
scraped thick with a palette knife,
green blacker than green.

Fingers cold as blood
shunts to the core like pulling
inward, numb to the world.

This is not a love song.
There is not enough joy, not enough
sorrow. World gone quiet.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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2 Responses to Love Song

  1. Whimsy Mimsy says:

    So desperate in the silence…and cold. Numbingly cold.

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