A shriek that bears the holy spirit of Charon. Making its way through every dead smile, every dead muse. With every half dead poem, every half alive interlude to our song being carried on his shoulders. Every uneven edge, carefully caressed. Every apology letter, carefully sealed, one rose tucked inside each beige envelope. //full poem in caption// Tender twigs, fallen last wishes of Autumn. Fallen last guilts of a summer so warm, a summer so cold. Fallen last wishes of days, rather quiet. Fallen last wishes of nights, rather non poetic and yet ours. Non poetic. Ours, though.
