Vestige.

.

unborn words encircle my neck with pointed consonants,
a heavy noose of relished feelings; venerable, frozen.

dead weight passions reflect upon a leaking spirit,
swallow - and the gravel splits my breath; twofaced.

what temporal cadence is this? it stutters with every mistake,
weaned of all truth between valleys; a stratus of hypocrisy.

once an adorned vestry, glowing with rubescent vessels,
now a tender remnant; empty before the starving sparrows.

nothing echoes in this cavern anymore.

(c) Novalyn Grace RR 2012
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
first creative writing I've done
in almost 11 months now.
it poured out of me.