Lost

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  • Loss

    Lost

     Silence,
    An unfamiliar sound,
    Rang in his ear

    Not a tick.
    Not a tock.

    His wrist was pale
    And lighter than before.

    Despite his shirt and pants,
    He was as naked as the day he was born.

    The loving touch of banded leather,
    Gone.
    The cold metal he held so dear,
    Vanished.

    He had lost his watch.

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    Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    RxParanoia’s Poems (33)

    Title Comments Submitted
    Title Comments Submitted
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