Nocturnus Interruptus

Love can be a wilting rose.

struggling through its final throes.

Leaves brittle, petals slack -

beauty slowly turning black.

Promises made no longer kept.

Calmly beneath the rug they're swept.

After all, what's the harm?

He half-expected it all along.

Tiny holes in a flawless veneer -

one he'd worn for many years.

But walls don't simply disappear

the second someone wanders near.

He tried despite that every day

but there wasn't any room for grey

on the chessboard where his pieces lay.

His king had already been put away.

And so at night he often wakes

to a throat of sand and wild shakes.

Instead of wondering why this time,

he penned it out in a sappy rhyme.

Author's Note

Sometimes things come to me when I'm supposed to going to sleep. Usually, I just let them go.

I probably should have this time too.

...

Reviews

[Nolo Segundo]

Another gem! '' throat of sand'-- perfect phrasing.