August has not been kind to me, Mr. Purcell.
I remember our late night drives, arguing
about the pronunciation of trochee, and who
better expressed the pain of life, Sylvia or Anne –
I still say Anne did it to save face, imitator –
the gypsy asleep in the back.
Under the bridges, on the windy skinny docks,
shouting our poems for no one to hear,
we ripped out our hearts to see if they still beat.
Those were our young days, but I had already lost my youth.
Tell me, Mr. Purcell, with eyes wiser than my soul,
how is it that you feel all we cannot express
and why has it taken me so long to see.


About ky

Poet. Photographer. Writer. Goddess. View all posts by ky

3 responses to “nonse

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: