This is winterThis is winter but its all a lie,
we play peekaboo behind gravestones,
churning up the grass and trampling
on lilac coloured crocuses.
There are ghosts here,
unfurling like the leaves
that will soon start to show,
flawed marble headstones
and stains on glass, casting
twilight, on an otherwise
quite flawless day, not cerulean yet
more a steely aquamarine,
like vacant stares on ancestors.
This is winter, a season of discontent
where fools lie down and cry and cry,
faux fur feathering on crystalline complexions,
blasts of ice in the kisses that we shed,
hearts are like frozen lakes,
the ice to thin to skate
we wait for other lies to shed their skin
it is winter and all is such a lie,
dancing with a spectre that shadows.
You see sadness in my eyes,
I'm looking past your shoulder
up to the highest crest,
we play peekaboo behind the graves
where love came to final rest.
Poetry by Elle
Read 344 times
Written on 2013-02-16 at 11:45
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