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.