Could this be the end?
The moon is an outline of the last of smothered blooms
and gasps;
whether it is rebirth or removal
remains to be seen—
the seed perhaps lingered for too long in one place.
You see,
it’s urging a ruse out of me.

In a hoarse tone I hear the pleas of yesteryear,
I knew not this morning
when I woke up
that silence would be so heavy—
you see, to me the blues are a form of struggle,
they can lighten or darken the room;
the gut ever twisting; will we forever be stuck in a muted Spring?

Part those curtains,
I dreamed of a city where the crisp wind carried me higher
and higher into the night;
wash away our sins
my thoughts gyrating to a cacophony of questions
growing louder—
maybe dirt isn’t what we make it out to be;
it’s urging a ruse out of me: it’s urging a ruse out of me.




Photo credits: Pinterest

“To write a blues song is to regiment riots and pluck gems from graves.” ~ Etheridge Knight

Day Twenty-Two ~ Poets of April

Skylover Wordlist: Seed 💝

Posted for Play It Again @ Real Toads