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
December’s Ghost
as I enter the small death of winter, slip into the darkness of its aging, aching skin I find that those memories of long ago days remain, lingering still, somewhere in the shadowy corners of these dust covered dreams buried where my darkest secrets are kept in the growing distances I keep as close…
