The Call

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Tags:
  • Lost Love
    • ,
  • Sadness
    • VerlassnTraum
    • The wounds are still fresh and unfortunately there is no lidocaine for love

    The Call

     A lonesome car ride, east from the "Burgh"
    mindlessly traveling, more on my mind than travels
    I've not yet left, even as You shrink into darkness
    hair amiss.
    You turn in the rear view, the glow of a finished cigarette
    drifting through the night
    to land cold upon the stone.

    I know now what it is to be cold

    I have felt my embers fade
    I have lost my glow
    I have been tossed from those lips,
    lips which I once embraced.

    Nights alone with Your voice mail
    The only voice I have heard in some time

    Nobody picks up a discarded cigarette
    I know now what it is to be cold

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    Poetry is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality.

    T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.

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