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Rated: E · Poetry · Biographical · #2209687
echoes of alone
In the still of the morning,
In my empty room,
Last word echoes
And things unsaid
Swirl around my feet
Like a brindled cat
Looking for attention.

A few colored hairs
And the memory;
words better left unsaid.
But cruelty spoke
And doors slammed
Are all I have left
In the still of the morning.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2209687-In-The-Still-Of-The-Morning