When we hang our skin <br />From a fallen tree <br />Near a busy lake <br />For all to see <br />How <br />Time <br />Passes <br />And leaves behind <br />More time <br />To pass <br /> <br />When we hold old lips <br />As a final kiss <br />In a market <br />Or while walking a pet <br />Hoping <br />The kiss will taste the same <br />As the tremor once held <br />Around <br />Her waist <br /> <br />When we light an old pipe <br />Early on a misty day <br />Sitting in a new chair <br />Dreaming of what has yet to <br />Happen <br />If the blue smoke <br />Turns your head <br />As it once did <br />On rainy days <br />When your skin was <br />Smooth <br />And the kiss <br />Stolen <br /> <br />When we turn off the lights <br />On a full-mooned night <br />We do not look up <br />But to that inner <br />River <br />Which carried us <br />Through <br />And in which now <br />A full-moon reflects <br />Upon things passed <br />And all that <br />Did not <br />Happen <br /> <br />March 9,2009<br /><br />vahe kazandjian<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rocking-chair-blues/
