• white_pigeon_whims 16w

    Greying streets whisper
    cold dust, a different time
    Their utterance echoes,carves
    on my glass mind.
    They hush a hymn
    so soft, it dangles
    like innocence,
    from an old child.
    I, an antique vase
    made to their design.

    Greying streets whisper,
    seasons of another child.
    Incumbent, she strays
    like a fishing line.
    Crushing confusion
    of my dithering mind.
    She escapes like a poem,
    lacing my lungs
    with intricately sewn thoughts
    breaking the bonds of time.

    ©white.pigeon.whims