cupLight caresses and draws dust
into its blades
the glass pane.
Bone sighs
glows in the oven.
the artisan
hears the call of the cup
in a measured heap
of milled white powder.
She drinks his whispers,
tastes of what he is
what he’ll become.
Her lips left not a trace
around its rim;
the bone china cup,
so pristine.
She left with the dust
or was she ever there?
The artisans cup
filled with emptiness.
His soul
bone white,
and a heart
blood red.

All this I pondered this leap year day, sitting there quietly, watching her coffee cup at rest on a white table. The power of the iPhone camera is no match for a morning time mind.

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3 Responses to POETRY

  1. Avatar Anonymous
    Anonymous says:

    I’ll always be a ghost.