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
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Dying Hurts by A.j. Binash )
- Beaming Bolts, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- It's only human, Priscilla Rose
- October...come she will., Roxanne Dubarry
- Fly Away, Gerry Legister
- Good For Nothing (Fun Poem 161), David Harris
- I Went, Vera Sidhwa
- Se(lection), Tony Adah
- Octopus, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Fill Yourself, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Moving Along Avenues, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
Poem of the Day
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
- Heather Burns
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)