Un(en)titled

Train whistles
for its missing;
silent stream
greets her.

Curtains drawn,
palmprints on panes;
sun tries to rise,
but “nothing
gold can stay.”

Some spirits,
nomads,
eternally
misplaced.

Wings of phoenix,
wings of angels,
unable to land;
all homes have sails.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise