The Gift
The Gift
Long days gather
like clouds on the horizon,
empty as popped balloons
Sucked dry of any
little it of morrow
To frail to thread
upon a string
Brittle as a
taste of death
Bleak as unread words
on a blank page
A gift unwished for...
unwrapped to reveal
a hopeless
entanglement of growing old
Copyright © Sherry Asbury | Year Posted 2018
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