Nov 11, 2009 11:26
The silent room,
no coughing or sighing.
The lonely trumpet-call of
taps
wavers in the chill November air,
and wind bears it to the room
with a sharp, hissing whisper.
The blinds clatter
with metallic
indifference.
We gather our breath
and begin the day again.
poem,
writing
Leave a comment
Comments 3
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment