By Hydra on 01/29/2008
Rating: No Rating
It is funny
How other poems
Remind me of the beauty of the mind's eye.
The departure, written all over your face.
The eyes, the nose, the lips, the lines.
All willing to sink into oblivion,
Folded into a used envelope.
A train station sings out loud.
Like some old jazz singers,
Ancient men of wisdom
They watch the world go by,
And do not give a damn.
They are standing still.
I onced imagined
You would pass me by,
Along with suitcases, newspapers,
A pocket book,
Without trusting the corner of your eye,
Guessing only grey.
The unsophisticated curiosity
Of ordinary days
Would be absent,
And you would simply pass me by.
© By Hydra On 1/29/2008 5:58:16 AM