Rain sits like steel on the cold grey dust of our fist-crushed flowers
The flesh the heart too weak for the stench of rotting diamonds
Wet dew of dawn clings like the one we lost
Left behind
We sit
And the rain is cold outside
To touch now seems immortal
Why try?
[4th February 1993]
Home
Back to Poetry Central
Previous
Next
Email: louisianax@yahoo.co.uk
