Epic

Epic

She sits in daffodils

behind my eyes,

an impression

I can not discard

or even

really

see.

She left me in blood

A bitter penny;

and I slip through

an opaque memory,

not quite there

any 

more.

Salt brings less than

meaning,

or a ghost of a feeling,

it was once love,

once

love.

Now just the afterthought 

of a Bronte epic.

And I can feel the piece

she left behind,

a stained window

through the middle

of

my

chest.

I look up

and beg for more.

Reviews

[Misery]

Your originally is vastly under-appreciated in this venue.
Change of venue! Change of venue, dear poet!

[Abigale LeCavalier]

Thank you for all of your comments. Very nice to feel appreciated. I have written 3 screenplays and started many books. But I'm in it for the poetry, it's where I live.