December

Winter has whispered it's gentle song,

above and below,

like an ancient tongue.

 

The streets are frosted,

much like her eyes.

I can't find her,

not even amidst the blue suburban skies.

 

I've enveloped myself in her quiet,

given up on her hearing.

 

My mouth tastes bitter,

unsaid words with truthful meaning.

 

Her presence to me is rare now a days,

fragile,

false,

and lead astray.

 

Some night I want to disappear,

to travel with the wind.

Murmur my hurt,

that maybe someday,

she will want to hear.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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