Laila

candle glass memory
fragile
in frame
old hallways down
library
mute light that I keep,

she said “there’s
a ballerina in
the jewellery box,
broken, she won’t dance
to the music
she makes, and the living
make ghosts of the
promises
they break.”

curious vessels
in need, will
rediscover
dead authors

in the same way
the mourning weep
for loved ones
in graves

“Are we so beautiful,
she asks, “in the circles
we live, transformed
with time, and each
palm
on our cover?”

I hear her, yet see
the city tenements
now torn down
and the coffee house
turned parking lot
to erase
our footprints.

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

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