These are the dying whispers of our final days as the sun hangs low – slipping into the darkness below and we wear December’s ghost to fashion the dead with grim decay written into the ages, our time kissed faces dreaming from the not so distant grave Poem/Image ©Debbie Berk August 7, 2016
Poetry,
I forget sometimes that it’s like poking the dead with a stick and expecting a response surprised at the silence and other times, oh the words, what noisy little ghosts they are Debbie Berk 4/12/2016
