It's a still life
water colour
Of a now
late afternoon
As the sun shines
through the
curtained lace
And shadows
wash the room
And we sit and
drink our coffee
Couched in our
indifference
like shells
upon the shore
You can hear
the ocean roar
In the dangling
conversation
And the
superficial sighs
The borders
of our lives
And you read
your Emily Dickinson
and I my Robert Frost
And we note our place
with bookmarkers
that measure
what we've lost
Like a poem
poorly written
We are verses
out of rhythm
couplets out of rhyme
in syncopated time
And the dangling
conversation
And the
superficial sighs
Are the borders
of our lives
Yes we speak of
things that matter
With words
that must be said
"Can analysis
be worthwhile?"
"Is the theatre
really dead?"
And how the room
is softly faded
And I only kiss
your shadow
I cannot
feel your hand
you're a stranger
now unto me
Lost in the dangling
conversation
And the
superficial sighs
In the borders
of our lives