My hands, hold yours

I am a dying breed.

(o)

The nights lay short and the cards, they simmer long and nicely along the glass surface.

The severed candles,

Watches and waits that leave the leaves to their bountiful bodies upon the lawn.

(o)

Death.

(o)

It is the colder mockery that bears this teller home to care. The knotted air displaced into corded strings and requiems.

My poems cannot tell you. My heart cannot speak within the mortal shell that holds it home.

Yet my feelings do speak it

And my mouth does take it

To be a truth that daring and clever looks could tell you in the instant,

That the days, they leave,

And along with these trees,

You may someday too.

(o)

Yet this year spent alone and in kindness,

The warmth…could never be sacrificed

The thought of being so close with you.

It is the 5th of the morning,

The Tuesday of December,

And the underground cowers beneath its clouded ice.

So easily that they stare,

Towards the sky and the air through that glass,

Held in towering grass

Stiff and cold.

(o)

Don’t leave me this December,

The sieve filtering snow and my

Eaves of lifting hope shattered along.

I would take you this next time,

Silently closer to you with its sign.

I’ll pass the fire, and wait for the sun’s shine,

Shall it grace that your face shall be kissed by mine

For the first time.

-KNRY