yvette smith (LONDON)

A handful of sorrow

called grief

In an hourglass

The sand slid through time slowly

They held onto their self help books

Like walking sticks

Refusing to grow old

Yet clutching at the grey day

Like a constant mourner

Working out a diary

The darkest sonnet

Looks framed

Eyes distracted from the road

Driving dangerously

Oblivious to the passengers

They took down slowly

To their death

Storms breaking even the oldest trees

Falling in time

yvette smith sept 08