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Veils of the morning - writing reams of poetry in her head on a Sunday morning lying in his bed...

writing reams of poetry in her head

on a Sunday morning lying in his bed

It rains against the window a perfect lazy day

she lies naked beside him

the most beautiful thing she had ever seen

with such colour structure and form


makes a second skin around him as he doesn’t touch her


he picks up his phone to read

she turns to the wall to cry

naked beside him not a bit of him to hold

everywhere she treads she treads on glass

and every time he bleeds


she can read him like a book

but could not interpret him

blinded by illusion

she makes romantic gesture

gifts burned in suggestion

his need to hate himself

more passionate than her love


she lies

here spent beside him

with no more Yeats to give



This poem was published in Golden Hour - Hora Dorada

you can buy it by send a message with your address to

colm@ciarnain.com it costs 12€ + postage

and on Amazon: Sweden - Spain - Germany - UK

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