The darkest hue
when the clouds are abalone,
are as whispers
in-between lips, they collide
with the taste of richer roasts
and dreams—such that
enslave me in body, in poem and ink.
January or June,
I find that he’s muse, one and only.
Photo credits: Aaron Westerberg, “Introspect,” Pinterest
De hosts at dVerse today and the word is “Muse.” Come join us! 💝
Posted for Quadrille #143: Muse Cues @dVerse Poets Pub