Almost a poem
The train leaves at noon,
near by a field with cherry trees.
Minutes before, while he is still asleep,
I write a note and the night gown that I wear
doesn’t like the sound of the crying silk.
Quiet and with stains of memories on my skin,
while the pen hovers over the yellow-like paper,
dripping ginger and shimmers of adieu,
I gather up my dress, leaving unwillingly
the fervidly ripped, satin sleeves,
a wallet, an emotionless identity
and a receipt from the post office
for an amity package that I will never collect.
Behind the closed doors I blend with the faceless,
heartless souls on the way to the train, thinking,
maybe I should write a poem, an insane confession
about my love for the angel who found me too late,
long after I became a fire nymph in service of Hades.
The cherry trees nod in disbelief and I agree, after all,
who will read a sonnet that has the end of an eulogy?
© 2012 Broken Sparkles