The last poem

domingo, 29 de junio de 2014


Your lips, your smile
an apple cinnamon infused room of smoke
I melt the tips of my fingers across your crooked grin
Your lips feel cotton soft
I inhale the fruit from your breath 
You break my spirit with your honey almond eyes
I see centuries of pain and war within the deep chasms of your soul
Your image fades as the smoke diffuses into the summers night
I can no longer see you...

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