Once
I once knew the killer of poems,
She lay on pillows of satin red,
Because they didn’t show the stains of words.
I was young and foolish,
I thought that smoke didn’t mean fire,
I thought whispers made mysteries.
I was lost in a desert of comfort,
The ghost that was me, pale and silent,
Looking at notebooks soaked in wine,
Ink swirling in burgundy.
