A boy stands high on the balcony of
a decaying, brown building among
wet clothes hung to dry.
Their colours; once bright, are
flushed but their fabric still
breathes out and inside each
time the wind sighs.
And down below I;
unlike the dresses,
I can’t even cry.
Comments
celticman | December 29, 2010 - 06:47
Nice.
Silver Spun Sand | December 29, 2010 - 10:38
An interesting title, Amna. In few words you convey, very effectively, the feeling of bleakness and hoplessness in the mind of the narrator. Like this, a lot;-)
Tina x