Could this be the end?
The moon is an outline of the last of smothered blooms
whether it is rebirth or removal
remains to be seen—
the seed perhaps lingered for too long in one place.
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
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
Skylover Wordlist: Seed 💝
Posted for Play It Again @ Real Toads