Thursday, December 20, 2018

spent portents

All these pages peppered
black with words,
trite poems and
weathered love letters,
strung instruments and
rosined draw,
only to say the dead
stay dead, and
all this lonesome
lives alone.

at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)

stars apart

Another boom and the moon is peeking through the part in the curtains, neither cause for the streaming tears, those only the parlance of our...

  • invocation
    This is how your letter finds me, as beaten and bowed as nature allows. This is how your letter finds me, a little lighter on the metaphor. ...
  • faith
    Knowing no more of music than what you hear you see three crows fly across four power lines and think: Music! And that is seeing. And that i...
  • nausea
    The earth shifts, the air you just inhaled seems to slip away. Something sour blooms, something unclean at your very core. The bile choked b...