HOME | DD

Description
Blown by the wind, violet
like the sound of your voice, quiet and poetic
into the night, calm and collected.

You turn and glance down, melancholy, affected
still by the still air, wind whipping your skirt, a shy blush
escapes, and you turn again, and you walk.

Hung up in the attic, fresh and scarlet, blossoming
and tender, you left your gown, your tear-stained gown, on which
my tears have grown stale, your dress wrinkled, the house creaking.

Wrinkled lines curved like sticks in the mud, on your muddied dress,
touched by children, back to your children, in silence,
it stares, and it begs reflection, while the air is stagnant and cool.

You turn your eyes to the road, and you weep gently, blue
and white sorrow, a handkerchief in hand, and I watch in silence,
like your old dress, and I cry at the sound of your wind-whipped voice, quiet and poetic.

Description
Blown by the wind, violet
like the sound of your voice, quiet and poetic
into the night, calm and collected.

You turn and glance down, melancholy, affected
still by the still air, wind whipping your skirt, a shy blush
escapes, and you turn again, and you walk.

Hung up in the attic, fresh and scarlet, blossoming
and tender, you left your gown, your tear-stained gown, on which
my tears have grown stale, your dress wrinkled, the house creaking.

Wrinkled lines curved like sticks in the mud, on your muddied dress,
touched by children, back to your children, in silence,
it stares, and it begs reflection, while the air is stagnant and cool.

You turn your eyes to the road, and you weep gently, blue
and white sorrow, a handkerchief in hand, and I watch in silence,
like your old dress, and I cry at the sound of your wind-whipped voice, quiet and poetic.