Posts
Bookish
The pages of the book like inked skin
Beckon to me from table near my bed
They whisper in the twilight hours again
And push the thought of sleep out of my head
The cover creaks echoing in the air
I cringe and hold my breath to hear you speak
I know disturbing you is quite unfair
Although I can’t resist a fleeting peek
The typeface fairly shimmers in my sight
While words and phrases quickly draw me deep
I’m lost within the lines while slow the night
Passes by, in hours bereft of sleep
The cover whispers closed with morning’s dawn
Again I’ve traded sleep for fancy’s yarn
(A Cup of Words Writer's Group piece I wrote 3/16/09)
What We Write About When We Write About Grief
-
[image: David Corbett for Writer Unboxed]
Every love story is a potential grief story. If not at first, then later.
If not for one, then for the other. S...
2 days ago
No comments:
Post a Comment