You washed off the rouge stripped the embroidered layers of silken garb --- the colors of a long dead romance the unforgotten legend between butterflies and dogs Everything is in stone now You grew “practical” nowadays after finding yourself less loved, less loving… The flowers buried deep in the treeless land where hungry ghosts hustle to catch paper money in the wind Everything is bare to the bone You no longer “dream” behind the secured doors of the cement mansion for your heart has little room now for whispers… Call it a play, call it a show Tears dried before the curtain went down But still you ask the mirror the same questions: Will I find you one day in my noisy dream? Am I still allowed to love once stepping out of your eyes? . . . . ---LTG in early fall light...
