the water-colours pool in tones of melancholy
pigments tainted for a year. from when
alone with you two minutes seemed a lifetime.
now. nothing. but a lifetime to remember. always.
your words. which blushed my heart.
but. now. reflection ripples on the under-side of water.
dour-colour painting ceaseless strokes to taint my breath
in pains of grey. bleak-shadows brushed across this
feted canvas. now. enslaved by words. your words.
which turned too quickly into anger. at my fears.
too dark. to keep our thoughts alive in amber.
too deep. for you to light upon this ever burning page.
Sally A Mortemore ©2022
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem