Perdu46

Lamb of God Time twists the days alone. I reach and find the barre of our lost gone into ash. The blue hour is long gone into my imagination.  I sit on the window seat we  shed our secrets on. I don't look at the type as I write.  I don't think of you reading Byron or anyone any longer sitting while sunlight drew your face in the photograph. What is is not the same and curl of once it was. You are vanish and  shadow in the close of my yesterday. Caroline Shank 3.22.2023

Unbroken She got him all wrong, the strong arms gone to brittle.  Clay is troubled to form the impression.  And longer the art of your dented and salted mire. For nothing like a walk in the boneyard of the cheap motel of her imagination.   You are Rant and Ruin.  The Remains crust and smoke  Tomorrow of her old age is the rat trails of her poetry I know this because she told it to the murk and creep of your deteriorating smoke.  The last toke was unimaginable. Run far and away from the  wrinkled visage of memory. You are red and ruins in a slot of yesterday. Today runs through her like wine and bread.  The table is set for never again your chair is broken silt. Caroline Shank 3.22.2023