Friday, May 27, 2005
The skeletons
Who had previously resided in my closet,
Have now taken the form of angels.
The evenings take shape as they float above;
Somewhere between the cold white ceiling
And my own self.
Barely breathing,
But already so dead,
The walls of my essence are bare,
And I've broken all of the mirrors in my heart.
My neighbors have a cat and a telephone,
And even though I "see" someone,
There's no one to talk to
But the kitchen sink.
-- Serena Moore
debbie at 5:23 AM