Nine

Tired
Head rested
upon old stained
pillow, eyes full of
dark-blue morning mist, when
the moon is slowly dying while
rosy dawn reclined, still amidst warm
slumber, the bed remains cold comfort again,
ensnared in the silky web of time, while
the spider spins fate in a thousand mirrors, tarnished
by abandonded hopes and splintered dreams, in the
silent room, turning away from that empty
spot, averting a lonely gaze, fixed
now, spent on cracked plaster
painted by the hint
of sweet sunrise,
and honeyed
words.