|
|||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||
|
|
******************************
a shrine is not made of sticks nor wood nor stone but of bones touches of flesh sometimes whiskers sometimes fur yet all from the deep yard of memories you hold your cold nose near its narrow grey windows look in again and again see the molecules of your breath collect sometimes satisfaction taps you on your slouching shoulder but more often the black glove of forgotten-ness this is grief your Familiar you both become lost the sheets dingy tear and dissolve in a sunrise soon this charcoal will be your house not made of sticks nor wood nor stone built from the even more frail bones and flawed flesh of failing memory ********************************** LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM 8:45 AM PST/11/2/2019 TIME-DATE STAMPED ORIGINAL WATERCOLOR MEMORIES/POEM BY MELISSA A HOWELLS AND ALSO FOR THIS POET MELISSA A HOWELLS AND ALSO FOR THIS LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED SITE TITLE MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD Vote for this poem |
|