“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Friday, April 22, 2016
Sky scrapes
contrails drew all day
as one would fade, another blade
cutting in on blue, gilt by sun
without a red handle
on it to be seen
what chalky lesson
is trying to be relayed
that the entire sky should
altruistically accommodate
and become frayed to mineral slate
from all points of you
grey matter made of our machinated arts...
and those parts of paths remain staining royalty
bleeding lines out
ward, the cons alibi
covering for clouds
on a crystal eyes day.
Image by By Willow2012 (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.
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