Every night the sound

Of a friend at the top

Singing a soothing song

Stays like wet dust

Only at different season

A door dark in smoke

Painted with soot

And charcoaled in decoration

Put up with

A furrowed skin

That speaks mumble jumble

Of the good times

Though little but long

In memory and wants

How did my love go?

How was his lips?

How was his last tears?

Was it crystal water?

Or tainted with dust?

How was I able to cope?

Should i end this?

Then her company

Starts her daily duty

First a howl

Then a quick scratch

Of the thatch

And only twilight

A wing flap

This takes a lunar

Then a full moon

Until the senses notices

Then a cup of water

And then a broken pot piece

Of scrubbed remnant

Each welcome

Is received with caution

Until – should I end this?

Brings the fondling tears

Of touch on the soul

With every night the sound

Of a friend at the top.

By Minstrel

Loves writing...

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