Monday, February 16, 2009



if it were only about the composition.
So simple it would be in explanation - exudation of watery droplets.
Oh, how uncomplicated it should be to conceal such sorrow...were it not so blurring and stinging.
Welling up till finally they gently begin their flow, over the delicate sill that sits below the window of ones' soul.
Till the numbness overwhelms, and thus begins the cascade over the warmed and blushed with fever cheeks.
Some reaching the trembling lips, impaling one's senses with that salty taste only the weeping heart does recognize.
Still, others shall sink further, streaking one's breast, seeking solace in the crevice that hides the pulse of they center.
Can there be a time when the soaking of oneself shall cease?
And, when it does, what shall be left?
Will the heart ever be whole again or does one learn to wrap the broken pieces...storing them in memory...not of love lost...but, of great possibility to be so touched again.

Claire Greco c. 09/11/02


  1. And that coming from you is indeed a compliment...thank you for stopping by.