All night the moth breaths Flickered among flat pink roses; I woke to listen. Learning of peace, lying by myself As the light lies on these grey walls, This bed, these hands. I have nothing to do with explosions; I am nobody. I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love. And in the morning, what is this beast, What gift the dawn brings To wake beside me In the still quiet? Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale Breaths, above drenched grass That dance, pale wraiths Of your small breath, Smell of your sleeps; lilies, lilies.
Reason for writing:
I couldn't sleep one night, in my younger days; I had it
bad, and_ well, is it good? Seriously, I would appreciate
some feedback on all of the various stuff I have contributed
to this little forum lately. Is anyone else out there?
Birth sign: Not entered
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View more poems by Ronnie A. Herrin/Libra.