You are dead to me as if I had viewed your corpse
Laying in a silken pine box waiting for your last wake,
Dead as the stench of betrayal and hypocrisy of the
Bodies walked over in the drive to the top of life.
I am dead to you from the first moment you realized
My purity of thought was as true as your darkness,
Dead as the shriveled heart that is left from the
Torture of your destruction against any kindness.
We are dead, never were, never will be anything but
A cold, black memory where there is no hero or ghost,
Dead as a novel no one has read, or will ever see by
An author who looks at them as ones he loves the most.
Copyright © Michele Osborn, 2011
All Rights Reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment