The Weekend

This stoney seat is cold and sharp

Dampened by the dew of a foggy mourning


Resting here hurts more then wandering on

Looking over the blue-green landscape cast by a cloudy sky


The faint smell of ash on my clothes and hands reminds me of the place I've traveled from

A tear

Drops from my cheek to wash away a little more


I don't want to remember

Those warm, sunny days

Buried under rubble and rain


Smoke rising softly

Rising gently into the sky

The cinders of a cherished memory

Leave nothing but dust


I see no respite for my soul from here

Gazing from the foot of the mountains

Thier tops, shrouded in mist

Thier pain, difficult to measure against the pain of turning back


Standing now from where I sat

No breath but my own breath

No voice but my own voice 

The sound of my heart not joined by the sound of another


I'll wander on till I'm forced to stop again



View theshadowknows's Full Portfolio
Stephen's picture