Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter



The whiteness of it is her
evening dress now, the
invitations scrawled in
the blue ink she so hated,
a careless letter thrown
in here and there where
she used to be the waif
they all lusted for and
waited for and loved for
and longed for until
yesterday’s finality.

There she lies,
her eyes wide open
and lidless, her
unaccosted forehead the
only whole part of her,
the smile motionless,
the rest of her hidden
under the shroud of

R 21/04/2023 20:46

Relentless. All this. It’s probably good so. Though two hours sleep are not enough.

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