Details |
Dennis Larabee Poem
The windowsill is broken,
As midnight chills the skin.
The moon is lit for romance,
the heart beat aches for sin.
The candle flame has risen,
boiling the blood to red.
A lie is for the living,
and a secret for the dead.
Whisper a word of promise,
I'll be the only one.
The warmth I felt upon my lips,
cursed by the morning sun.
Copyright © Dennis Larabee | Year Posted 2016
|