Widow

© 2019 Steve King

All rights reserved

So now I am that widow guy,

pressed in these thoughts like widow’s weeds,

come near to end of time, it seems;

so near to end of days, must seem to all.

There are yet days.

Time is not stilled,

nor are the dreams undone,

to hang like heavy husks

across the fallen backdrop

of an endless, empty night,

a million miles to see.

And memory,

a pretty picture now,

but strange, imperfect, an unfinished thought,

where every echo plays

without its grounding harmony,

songs of siren sorcery,

promise unfulfilled,

and choruses of silence

that linger, stranger still.


A new poem for Open Link Night at https://dversepoets.com/