Blooming buds know not devastation;
their roots forever exploring the softness of mud in the midst of winter,
flooding the city with prospect—
all blackness and all sweetness, can I desert a war I haven’t joined?
Watered, this ache consumes me,
tastes like absinthe without sugar in the early hours of morn;
a duskier abalone,
like an ashen memory that curls around the edge of the brain—
my pen still speaks your name.
What is this obsession of 2 AM with Poets?
I can crave the touch of words
but it will not be the death of me, how can it be?
Has the night ever complained of constantly being accompanied by clouds?
Cast your fragrance upon me,
your eyes deep, dark and mysterious are as the moon
in rare moments
when time slows, that’s when grassy hillside knows to sway with the wind—
how is it that I’d never noticed before?
But oh! What a rush,
this feeling, this understanding of the world being ephemeral
as it has always been;
there is nothing in which deduction isn’t as frightening as it is
around the hour of apocalypse—
bloodied, these streets speak of bedlam,
why is it that men must turn against each other for reasons incomprehensible?
Hold me until I no longer feel the emptiness,
should I ever
be unable to gaze upon your lovelier face, deep into the earth
my conscience lies; and for good reason,
how does one say goodbye when they have yet to experience hello?
I don’t want to.
Photo credits: Pinterest
Tonight we are doing turns, shifting the perspective in our
poems with Peter at dVerse Pub. Come join us! 💝
Posted for MTB: Middles & Turns @ dVerse Poets Pub