“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Monday, October 7, 2019
following
in fews and some succinct
far betweens
where seeing is belief, a chasm
yawns
-wait-
let me reassemble this and that
together
it will come
Open
in relaxed moments, boxes
like these
corners
converse
wait and see
or not
and never mind-
prophecy, like karma
thinks
a lone to only one
conclusion
there is no watcher here
a wake.
Painting by Charles W. Bartlett, 1908 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
White
Unopened mail on the counter, a meal half eaten sits on the table, fork frozen in position of the last bite. A world abandoned mid-sentence,...
-
Natures touch is both gentle and fierce. Homo sapiens trample on her back. The thick skin impossible to pierce. So...
-
A year ago this May, in fact, upon this same very grey day- something came over me I found could say, in no other way but to portray, ...
-
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...

No comments:
Post a Comment