The Lateness of the Hour

I come to our conversation late
my dear, and in chains —
spinning memories below the wall
of half-forgotten, half-overheard promises.

I reflect on
the last days of spring on
 — emotionality —
before the core of your program
relaxes, releases, rewrites
the never-final revision
of our story
all over again.

This, this:
no-one you know.






4 responses to “The Lateness of the Hour”

  1. john

    Each time i read this, It gives me a different Reflection of my thoughts and feelings.
    An interesting Piece of poetry, that gives me a different meaning every time i read it.
    Thanks for the wonder:)

    1. Sibylle

      Thank you!

    1. Sibylle

      Thank you!

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