unborn

 


I can no longer see past
the mountains of grayness

I can no longer talk with the
sun about the names of
roses in the garden

I can no longer feel the
song of the wind upon
my flesh...

eyes turning to rust in
the moonless noir

child, I wish you were
still here waiting for
us to be born

born from the fruit
of slumber

where we will find
ourselves alone
together