The Spirit of Me
A poem
IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK
A poem
Fingers of sorrow hold me in their grasp,
as the crystal night chills me to the bone.
Come dawn, the winds of mourning will beckon,
to pay the price
for ecstasy.
Like a rose veil you cloak me,
as threads of cherished thoughts unravel,
and each petal unfolds
in the warm golden dusk
across the hushed lea.
I never knew the solace
of a heart to call my own,
and unspoken anguish lives
in every vacant life left behind.
You cannot see me,
but you can sense me.
I am the breeze,
drifting gently
across your cheek.