Saturday, August 6, 2016

Nothing Left







there is nothing left
on which to hold,
nighttime breezes,
blowing softly
though open windows,
cool and fresh,
like some distant friend,
calling us back,
down this road
to a distant home,
known and departed
so very long ago;
let it flow,
feel its pain,
crying deep within,
it is here,
the answers wait,
silently,
innocent and pure,
without shame;
without accusations.
.

.

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