User Review( votes)
written by: Eoghan Lyng
My peace is there in the proceeding mist
when I may please from shreading long sanguine thresholds
lacking a space of a door that opens,
the focus in on the breath of a man
dying on his star crossed spaced
waste in his old mack on a park bench.
My pain sits there from the changing rain
where I pry myself in a whispered wisecrack
lusting an arm to hold around my closed neck,
the changes the eyes of a woman
longing on the changed cold terrace
posit does it do the temptation out.
My tear asks itself where the story ends
why it ended on such a note instead of buying
itself a hand to wonder where it would
the strings that hung itself from a curtain
certain of the success a Winter's night
would wind it from a shelf.