sadness

Thought it was you

         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.