The moon swallows everything;
seeking on every lover’s lips,
how hefty the hours are—
you want bedlam to cease, don’t you?
I could use anything that gives me respite;
even the simple promise of Spring
from afar.

The cups are stained, murmurs unheard
never come off;
how merciless the eye of storm—
ravishing the masses and puffing them away
like smoke,
does this mean the world is ending?
There is no quick explanation,
things are becoming worse
and worse as we brood and sit here talking—
you put the sugar in coffee’s breath and it’s moist
with creamy, frothy conviction.

Dejection snarls at us with its teeth,
with a less than fragrant inheritance— who is it for?
The masses. Not necessarily a country,
or region in particular,
its unreturning tides are meant for everyone;
spreading what’s likely to be a blue pause—
you soothe me,
far beyond what Poetry can describe
in a time
when blood contaminates the ground;
I can hope to forget.



Click here if you wish to read Part One

Photo credits: Pinterest

This week, I am inviting others to write poetry or prose
a literary device known as Hypophora.
Come join us! 📝

A Skylover Wordlist:  Merciless, cream, fragrant, ground
teeth, inheritance 💝

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United

& Posted for Open Link Night @ dVerse Poets Pub