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liebestod, for we love death
June 27, 2010
his
eyes
(eyes are the mirror to your soul.)
dark—
ink running down blank parchment;
ashes smouldering in the fireplace;
shadows thrown onto cracked pavement;
eyes that talk.
whispering,
“sell me your soul.”
her
lips
(from her lips a new world grew.)
pale—
bare branches of a white birch tree;
the ocean waves at an ivory sunset;
smooth porcelain on a priceless sculpture;
those silent lips.
trembling,
she paints his portrait in shades of gray,
and it is beautiful.
© Michelle M., Plainview, NY
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