Note: No profile exists for this entry - most likely it was deleted.
I screamed don't do it
from the third balcony window,
but it was too late.
You had already found his arms,
were dissolving into his chest.
And like that
I was just another ghost writer,
old lover,
poet that used to sing his songs for free.
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Isobel
Wed 16th Mar 2011 08:39
I'll second that welcome, Terry!
Funnily enough, when I first read this I found it reminiscent of Mr Black's style, so it is interesting that he should also have commented on it.
I like the economy of words to convey your ideas and the detached way you write about something painful.