first draft-quatrains

28 10 2007

The glass is weathered yet untouched
by hands; eyes feel all the coldness.
Words become harsher as I clutch
all the pane and try to regress.

Times of happiness and love
seem to never unfold again,
I am left waiting for the dove
to make its mark on all humans.

Sounds of anger and betrayal
echo along my neck, I grasp
the pane with strength, my all.
The last sound I heard was a gasp.

The glass is weathered yet untouched
by hands, eyes try to grasp kindness
outside; the wind carries in its clutch
a leaf letting it fly aimless.


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