Morning After
it's the morning after
brooding in the blue
of a dusty motel room
and in tune
to the wail of silent mood
a single rose, wilted
recalls a poignant peek
of an eve just passed
and enveloped of olden eves
a tear drop falls
to break the sound of silence
on an unmarked date
of an unseen calendar
today is the first day
beyond my birthday
celebrated in a sunken
rented chair,
recalling candled cakes
once e'er made, flickering
tapers that fade to serene
scenes warmly guarded
within of past birthdays
her mere presence
my best imagined gift
her gentleness
my special piece of cake
Copyright © Lou Schreiberg | Year Posted 2010
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