He is my voice
My beautiful stolen whispers
And I cannot brush aside the wind
That carries him to my door
He speaks with the lips of ashes
Cool and crumbling, soft as snowflakes
He speaks of the fire he once was
The flame that he longs to be
He is a tempest
A hard blowing, snow throwing fury
Assaulting my mind with possibilities
Raining glass into my eyes
He is a drumbeat
A constant droning in my breast
He is a dagger piercing my flesh
Taking my breath, spelling my death
He is an empty journal
Whispering my secrets to the dark
He snickers like a naughty child
He is ink bleeding from my soul
He is a match, a half smoked cigarette
Burning down my house
He hides behind steel curtains
To watch me burn…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem