Immoral Scars...

i am the broken watch,
on the underpaid desk.
the eyes grown dim,
the hair turned grey.
the endless chapters,
each named, then forgotten.
the wings of the bird,
killed by the cat.
the shoebox of letters,
the paint peeled wall.
the taste of old whiskey,
the fireplace full of ghosts.
swallows in the chimney,
snake skins on the ground.
the song of autumn,
waiting beyond the moment.
the sprinkle of rain,
the silence of the trees.
the brush of the hand,
so intimate it startles.
the moral heart with immoral scars.

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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