I like to think that she screamed
little sounds,
spreading in steady circles
ripples in water, and that someone heard
but didn't come.

He told me had taken her to the desert
I guess I shouldn't be thinking about water
but of sand, only sand doesn't cry.

The desert is a large place, wide open
every little sound goes far
like hers did.
He can't remember where she's buried,
leaving her grave unmarked.

Poetry by muddy waters
Read 477 times
Written on 2006-05-03 at 15:43

Tags Sand 

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text