how does spring
end, my dove
does it blend
and bleed into summer-
love or will it
run along another bend
which leads to station
of abandoned town
with sun-bleached signs
of forgotten name
and porters
who are but ghosts
of former selves
its dusty platform
with boarded-up halls
strewn with tumbleweed
blown-in by Chance
discarded there
as though runaway
or progeny of refugees
as i?
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3 comments:
Here, summer darts and retreats, like a youngster attempting to cross the highway...never quite sure it's time to run head long, until there are no options left but absolutes.
i certainly hopes it blends into summer, option 2 is rather desolate...
Vraiment très beau, comme une armistice, heureusement, les trains ne servent plus qu' à voyager.
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