Sunday, 23 October 2011

And counting.

Twelve miles away
(that's forty-eight less than before)
and now it's over and I know.
A day too late.
You stood so tall, and walked so proud;
a black and white photograph
amongst graffiti bright currancy.
So admired. So beautiful.
And I didn't see
how much easier you found it til now.
A day too late.
The nightingale, still singing,
(for hope is the thing with feathers)
is replaced with a thing of gold and gems
and forgotten even to be forgotten.
Your life so busy, so bright,
it blinded.
You step on my collected;
beautiful, cracked and fading stills.
Walked right past my door.
Twelve tries away
(that's fourty-eight less than before)
and now it's over, and you know.
A day too late.

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