Sky

I describe
The sky to you.
Early morning,
Tired bruises and
Worn candyfloss.
The way the grey birds sweep
Negative
Over the heavy grey river.
How clouds drift like
Dying breath
Towards the afternoon
And thin trees with
Their fingers break.

It is December.

Your hands tremble,
Eyes stay blind,
Seeing only summertime.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s