Beneath the Ticking Clock
Sweet pricks upon this waning heart bleed deja vu
Your verses victorian script tempt as rouge lips, scent as roses
Lines intimate evermore than the morning dew
Pages the petals lave from out of love letter boxes
So, how easily hence, I can forget the true
Such things, as shelves lined with dust laden classics
By ambiance candlelight Shakespeare, Dickens or Thoreau
But, not the words romance or atmosphere in which you invite
Dispelling death of passions from our lives long, long ago
But yet, alive like the Psalms of David
Dancing shadows in your presence prose
Amid the darkness evanescence around the room
Read beneath the ticking clock...
Until the sands of slumber flow
Copyright © Michael Smith | Year Posted 2012
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