Photo by Jenni Kowal on Unsplash
Empty chairs at the table,
voices from the street that never call
here,
cold clocks mark
a time already been and without
Tomorrow,
you will look at the roses with red eyes and
you will think that
they only live a month and
you will steal its perfume for
an immense moment.
_______
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About the Creator
ema
I invent stories, sometimes they need to be written.
Carpe Diem Tempus Fugit.
Comments (4)
Love is fragile indeed, Ema. Well-dramatized.
This was so poignantly beautiful! Loved your poem!
So sad and beautiful. I could feel her pain.
Such a pity that lovely flowers die. But they are then reborn as the world spins and the seasons come and go. Such it is with us.