empty time

bitter, twisted, like
the vines that climb
the walls of the house.
and lead from the gate,
into the garden -
watching and waiting.

( afraid to breathe,
running on empty time. )

like honeysuckle flowers
in mid-summer may, they
speak of tenderness. eyes
always watching, the corners
of their lips are like maps. so
uncharted, so unexplored.

“talk!” she says to the dying
girl whose face is like the cloudy
sky. eyes like rainwater, so clear
and forgiving are glazed over by
ice. her lips are parted, the abyss
of tombstone teeth bleached white
beckoning to death.

( and there is nothing but silence
no death-rattle, last kiss, speech;
because she ran on empty time. )

like lavender and foxglove flowers
in mid-summer august, her lips are
tinged blue. the corners are like street
lamps, faintly glowing with the mist
at night - and there is no smile.

only peace.

( and no longer do the vines
that climb the wall of the house
watch her. empty time is fulfilled
and they are expressionless when
it comes to describing and watching
someone die - and death. )

author’s notes : Okay… what the hell? I don’t know what this is. I looked outside and it was all grey and windy and my house is literally deserted… so this came out.