Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Victoria Williams: 0223

The ruins of a poem,
Sand sweeps in,
I’ll see her wearing beads on her brow,
A crown of silver discs,
We’ll clean out the palace.
Him destined to wait,
Me destined to pine,
Mr. Marshall even though,
You’re nearly 100,
You’ve still left a girl,
Staring an asp in the face,