Sunday, February 16, 2014


Brittle leaves swirling,
branches stripped bare,
grey fingered limbs
reach to hollow despair.
Empty I stare.

Stones whisper.
I sit among them,
a wisp of fire smoke,
embers glowing then gone
in incidental frailty.

A heart with no love
knows despair.
Its richness
swept to crumbling leaves
on a chill November day.

1 comment:

  1. Every poet takes a crack at writing about despair as a poetic puberty rite. Here is my own effort - a reworked one, in case you read the earlier version. Hopefully it is an improvement.