"Concealment " Crit 4 Crit

A portrait of myself.
A photograph of a nameless face nailed to the wood.
Beyond the locked jewelry box missing a key.
And unused perfumes scattered about all the sad things.
A portrait of me.

The sun collapses into the horizon.
Your shadow traces the wall with a weary stutter.
And the fire extinguishes the desolate cold
As we hold on for dear life.

Each morning we bury our dead;
Succumb to each sorrow;
Place our hearts on the mantle;
Til the whiporwill calls us home.

The pen slips as the hours bleed.
Time is corrupting each word.
I feel your arms cloak my bones.
And I know you're not there;
As I pose silent and content.

The mountains sing the echo of the rain.
The warping melody of the wind;
Under the conduction of the constant tapping.
And if you listen closely you can hear her voice.
Til the whiporwill calls me home.
Last edited by AgainsTheMirror at Mar 7, 2009,