Colorless now.
The sunlight wore
the last of your pigments out.
Swan-white and mute,
you sit on the windowsill,
and anemic.

Vascular plants made their homes
in your socketed opening.
Now you're a tomb-
chipped and unused, marred and pale.
This is a death, a waste.
But your owner hadn't the heart
to throw you out.

Poetry by intothehaze
Read 986 times
Written on 2005-11-18 at 17:48

Tags Colorless  Anemic  Pale 

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Sofiul Azam
Wow! another wonderful poem..........