“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Friday, September 30, 2016
A cool breeze hits a sweaty brow
Too busy to look up
tethered with tension
down my leaden limbs
tiny things gathered
and amassed
yet-so easily dissipated, blown away
Here, first, things first-
someone's last chance
blows by
why
ask
any-
more
?
Painting by Jean-François Millet [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Feather weather
Before I arose the tangerine sunrise squeezed its citrus air through my bedroom window dripping fresh pulpy nectar of a new day onto the co...
-
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
The ship sailed West on Sunday The wind was too wild on Wednesday Our arrow plane rips the paper sky, severing space for itself, i...

No comments:
Post a Comment