Whispy so faint
or feign like clouds,
like whispers
of empty voice
filled in breezes
that matter not
until
hitting something
like chimes
whereby hinting of
something more
of substance,
a question
lingers like
what matters
until...
Painting by Konrad Krzyżanowski, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
They-
wanted me to fail-
expected me to-
secretly
suffer.
They
believed him
who spoke in tongues
dripping with alcohol-
venom-
or temptation.
They
assumed some-
thing some-
one else
knowing naked and shorn
They
could never make it through
the frozen nights
of solitude.
They
estimated-
were mistaken and
some, like me, would say
unlucky
betting on the black sheep
betting on the lamb
who is the wolf
you feed-
and the bitten hand
that continues to write through the pain.
Painting by William Sidney Cooper, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
On still days with drooping flags and contented leaves Sounds somehow soaked in between the crevices of broad daylight I sit as still as my ...
