The taste of world’s last dance lingers upon my lips;
an orb of liquid fire,
where the skin of my grief sheds its leaves—
written in dark letters
upon every single page, it refuses to bite dust, to move ahead.
Name these feelings of mine
as I bequeath my mortality to you, a honeyed nectar
in a chalice half full— one that scrys into for answers;
that’s how the story progresses,
poignant and cleansing the heart of its saltiness.
In defense of dystopia, I am a Poet first
then a realist, dusting roses along the way;
thirty-three years and Spring is over,
my intellect demands that I depart from pavements—
a glossy black asphalt that mourns the living
to the past, morbidly cold to the touch; it does not breathe.
Why must we chase that which has no desire to be pursued?
The moon, a chaotic rhythm
born of soul; it’s all right to let go, it’s all right to let go.
Photo credits: The Mirage by Alexander Yakovlev, Pinterest
Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United