I remember a poem.
It’s a love poem and one my friend shared with me as he was falling in love.
“And I was desolate”
The poet was desolate before they found their love and desolate without them.
And now whenever I hear that word I think of that poem, my friend and a painting he loves by Jack Vettriano called Dance Me To The End Of Love.
The desolate landscape extended for mines. As she walked through it, the wind stirred up dust and she started to cough. She didn’t know if the dust was doing harm to her lungs, even as she covered her face. She felt as desolate within herself, just like the landscape around her.
I remember a poem.
It’s a love poem and one my friend shared with me as he was falling in love.
“And I was desolate”
The poet was desolate before they found their love and desolate without them.
And now whenever I hear that word I think of that poem, my friend and a painting he loves by Jack Vettriano called Dance Me To The End Of Love.
The desolate landscape extended for mines. As she walked through it, the wind stirred up dust and she started to cough. She didn’t know if the dust was doing harm to her lungs, even as she covered her face. She felt as desolate within herself, just like the landscape around her.