The wind becomes a knife, <br />cutting the edges of your eyes. <br /> <br /> <br />Begonias die slowly <br />on the scorched windowsill. <br /> <br /> <br />Shards of ash flutter <br />like moths through the faded light, <br />gentle settle on burnt blossoms.<br /><br />David Kowalczyk<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/apocalypse-moon/
