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You washed off the rouge
stripped the embroidered layers
of silken garb --- the colors
of a long dead romance
the unforgotten legend
between butterflies
and dogs
Everything is in stone now
You grew “practical” nowadays
after finding yourself
less loved, less loving…
The flowers buried
deep in the treeless land
where hungry ghosts hustle
to catch paper money
in the wind
Everything is bare to the bone
You no longer “dream”
behind the secured doors of the cement mansion
for your heart has little room now
for whispers…
Call it a play, call it a show
Tears dried before
the curtain went down
But still you ask the mirror
the same questions:
Will I find you one day
in my noisy dream?
Am I still allowed to love
once stepping out of your eyes?
. . . .
---LTG in early fall light...
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