A poetic journey through my mind

Three

Cold glass eyes to sleep glazed eyes,
I meet my own gaze.
Is that sympathy I see,
or just acknowledgement?

my garden has walls of vines
with thorns, but only on the outside
my garden has deep, dark pools
that hold the starlight in their depths
my garden has cold stone benches
that warm to my touch like skin.

I thought I love you 

meant forever…not until.

One response

  1. A cold garden, indeed, is the one formerly enjoyed with the belove, now blocked to all by thorns.

    April 16, 2012 at 1:31 pm

Talk to me, people! ;)

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