A poem
Ambience of what has been
still lingers in the air,
and slides along a froth of peppered mist
on icy dusk and rain-spun grass.
As tangible as wisps of smoke,
gone now, like the exhalation of the wind.
The fluttering of untried wings
echoing a thousand times.
I listen to the soft and rhythmic thrum,
under clouds whose tinged vermilion
flickers in a breeze that chills my core.
Tears have lost their salty grain
and more