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 )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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