Cry
He has the edge of me, the quill,
and the waves of prolong prose.
The hands move, they write with no
purpose but to disappear into death minds.
Meanings of grief,
turning into dark stone, tear drop become
ice drops, reach the end, and break
into dry whispers of cry.
©ElenaToledo2011
Copyright © Elenushka Toledo | Year Posted 2012
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