Sits at the edge
Of the glass doors,
Exhales a sigh
Into the fog
Her breath creates
On the glass.
Is the tempting air.
Producing fragile lust
That breaks apart
Passion becomes a chore.
The words fade
Like dying apparitions.
Into a speck
Of white fog.
Than the circumference
Of a rose's stem.
The outside air is begging her
Not to go towards the speck.
“Avoid the light! ”
Absorbs into the carpet,
She closes her eyes
To the fog.
Are nothing but words.
A.j. Binash's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Dying Hurts by A.j. Binash )
- recyclops, ramon lvdiaz
- Ideal or Real, immanuel santos
- clear as mud, Mandolyn ...
- Burma war, lee fones
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- There are veins of gold embedded, Little Eagle McGowan
- Yours Desire for High Sky, Aftab Alam
- Oh, The Cautious Heart, Dorothy (Alves) Holmes
- Torrential Downpour, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- bo-tox, lee fones
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