The cause for my sadness
Your walking away that is.
This evening
With a little poetry
In the undertones
It is not you.
It is the loss of a time before you.
Of my collection of withered flowers
Between leaves of sepia pages
The tenderness of my evening dreaminess
And the radio playing to the stars
In my solitude, and languorous walks
With the mongrels following me
My music and my hidden diaries
My sadness is my loss of myself.
The old hair pin worked on that rusted lock.
