Purple's Platitudes

nothing but words …

smoke, trinkets, and incantations

18 January 2014

 

 

Offerings

left on yesterday’s doorstep,

spirits appeased

grow restless from time to time.

 

a stick cocooned

in frayed, once white twine,

kite not included …

 

a brittle bird’s nest,

abandoned,

not through neglect,

but by love …

 

A tattered,

hand-me-down baseball cap,

when innocence was

stealing home …

 

I conjure ghosts,

and together, from here

to the bend in the road,

we laugh and cry together,

in unequal measure.

 

I curl my fingers, reach for smoke,

trinkets, and incantations.

Nothing can carry me back

across the chasm.

I sigh.

 

 

(for The Sunday Whirl)

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18 January, 2014 - Posted by | Poetry |

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