poetry

An ever furtive lover

I always knew this day would come;
that the pack of carrion, ever advancing, would stop,
double–back and tear into your back.

Your hands,
they swallowed mine, like sand against a mountain.
I thought that if I had more time I could wear you down
and yet — time is an ever furtive lover.

My garment—torn, hangs upon me as gossamer wind, its warmth as winter.

– wide paned windows, laughter in the deep, Ford Theater’s most famous stainer, McBean and Glen — are all among my friends.

— these are the memories of my childhood, the gifts you gave me; my treasure from your large open hands.

thank you for these jewels — treasure that time nor thief can touch.

 — a poem written upon my father’s death

© 2017 rl busséll

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