WHAT IS A DAY.(In Remembrance of a dear Friend)
What is a day, a week or a month
my whole life, in where you are the reason
only a short moment on this bleached paper
that doesn’t allow your tongue to speak
a hot fire, enticing, burning into powder of ashes
and flying with the whispering wind.
The short moment, greedy for your shimmering lustre,
imbibing your last, strenuous vision
the award, that shines in your half-closed eyes
Your dry lips, now withering from decency
and grant allowance to contemplate
over the pretentious scenery.
The short moment, a deceitful light
behind shadows, opens a new window
rustling, with the rest of your virtues
the still strength in your serious heart
that swears to capture your choked voice
In the blazing pain where solitude exceed.
The short moment, already too long
for innocence ,hopes and imagination
a bewitched time, with glowing passion
for finding a spot to your late dessert.
Too short for a still and soundless breathe
and for the tender falling raindrops
on your cheek.
Jan. 2016 ©k.c.