Dust the gold off you fingers, mate.

Monday, January 25, 2010

Gone for College

I walk into my bedroom
the air is strange
there's something softly restless
an anxious wind of change
though my possessions remain stationary
somethings bound to stir
because the hand of destiny
has taken my sister
her bed, perpetually prim and made,
a shrine to her absence
mocks me for my solitude
and feeble innocence





No comments:

Post a Comment