Tuesday, November 29, 2005

With Nothing Left

WIth nothing left
to see, to hear, to taste. . .
no work left to be done
the party --day-- is over.
Your body's weary, tired.
And as you're blinking, blinking. . .
each time they stay closed longer.
And time is slipping, slipping. . .
the lights-- you turn them off.
You lie your head down on the pillow
and let your thoughts rise to the sky
where they meet mine and mingle, mingle. . .
among the clouds
in the night sky.

Written 2-14-03

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