Tomorrow all this will be forgotten.
In the morning your moaning will mean nothing
Your pregnant proclamations will be no more than a whisper, echoing
in the space between your feet and the sheets before finally
being driven out by sound of the alarm, unforgivingly sounding the death-
knell on your silent movie fantasy that you mistook
for the real thing.
Tomorrow all this will be forgotten.
And you will lie blinking in the sun with the night's shadows
slowly retreating up the wall and wonder
how just a few hours earlier you thought this moment would last
forever.
2 comments:
Very nice, ken.
I really like the sound of this poem.
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