The echo of wine is sadness, jokes told are
not funny and laughter is a bronchial cough.
Mirth gone when Sunday is despondent,
an autumnal leaf that drags itself along
a clammy asphalt road.
Wrinkled faces framed by nylon shawls,
hesitate by church steps as wanting to hear
more words of everlasting love;
before going home to empty rooms and
dripping kitchen taps.
October drizzle on Sunday´s best, bat wings
open up and the murmur of the future less
is a dying repeat; as the padre smokes
a cigar in the vestry, wine has lost its glow.
oskar hansen's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Attic living by oskar hansen )
- Loving Eyes, Jack Growden
- The rabbit foot, Harold R Hunt Sr
- Gaseous Love, Mr. Nobody
- Digesting Emotions, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Behoven, douglas scotney
- Lease, gajanan mishra
- Just Making Sense, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Gloomy day., shafeeqrahman rahman
- Soothing An Interior Wildness, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Sad, shafeeqrahman rahman
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