No Silver Tip

NO SILVER TIP She cries among the dead she's come to know her holy grail, beneath Champs Elysees, acknowledging no one can come or go without her word, they never find their way. All catacombs still dark, she waits alone, lest one should count the dead; not one has breath; nor come to grips with wall of solid stone, her loss is never knowing what is death. down there, she waits for nights she'll never sing about her final breath she'll never see, and of the last hurrah time will not bring because time never ends eternity. she envies wolf men's howl at silver tips, but knows the kiss of death evades her lips. © RON WILSON ARBUTHNOT aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown poet