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For All This Time
January 16, 2017
A door is what a dog is perpetually on the wrong side of,
And I can hear the birds of woe.
This party is for those whose expectation is postponed, making their heart sick.
I study atlases and cirrus paths, in search of traces of it, of you.
All my stories are about being left, all yours about leaving.
It wasn’t a question of a perfect fit.
After all this time?
Always.
© Nicole B., Newcastle, WA
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In memoriam of Alan Rickman
This is a "Found" poem, made of many pieces of prose I have found.